


Mistakes That You Do Mean

by auntieomega



Series: Is It Really So Strange? [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk - All Media Types
Genre: 1990s, Addiction, Anal Sex, Anal creampie, Angst and Humor, Background Character Death, Bad Boy Tony Stark, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Blue Balls, Bruce Banner Has a Boyfriend, Complete, Cuddling & Snuggling, Doggy Style, Friendship, Gay Bruce Banner, Homophobic Language, M/M, Male Slash, Mildly Dubious Consent, Past Drug Use, Period-Typical Homophobia, Platonic Cuddling, Pre-Gamma Radiation Hulk, Pre-Iron Man 1, Questioning Tony, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Roughhousing, Spanking, Tony Learns Not to Call People Faggot-ass, Valentine's Day, Young Tony Stark, mild violence, young Bruce Banner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-03-31 21:49:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 45,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3994123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auntieomega/pseuds/auntieomega
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before they were Iron Man or the Hulk, Tony and Bruce met as teens and became best friends.  Now in their early twenties, they find their lives have become more complicated.  Bruce agrees to care for Tony in the seclusion of the Starks’ canyon house while Tony kicks his addiction to cocaine.  Although both have sworn to “just be friends,” each finds himself wanting more.</p>
<p>*Takes place during the nine year gap between chapters nine and ten of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3881755/chapters/8677753">"Someone Else, Someone Good.”</a></p>
<p>*Takes place in the same universe as my <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/252826">“A Marvelish Romance”</a> series.</p>
<p>*The title is from a line in the song "Cuts You Up" by Peter Murphy.</p>
<p>COMPLETE!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction. It is not intended to be an accurate portrayal of drug addiction or rehab. When I cite actual studies, I'll include a citation in the notes. Otherwise, I made it up. I actually do a pretty crazy amount of research for all of my stories, but I also make a lot of crap up. This one is no exception.
> 
> WARNING: Dubcon-ish throughout. In my opinion, it's very light dubcon, but I don't want anyone to be surprised.

_February 1, 1990_  
_Tony is 20, Bruce is 22_  
_One of the Starks’ retreats—a house in Silverado Canyon in California_  


Sweat-soaked blood trickled into Bruce’s eye as he struggled to keep Tony in one of the wrestling holds he had practiced before agreeing to help his best friend kick cocaine. He had been afraid Tony would become violent during the early stages of withdrawal, and, despite their similar heights, Tony was much more muscular than he was. And here they were, nearly eight hours into detox—Bruce a bruised and bloody mess with Tony pinned beneath him, shaking, enraged.

Their relationship was platonic, yet Bruce found it difficult not to notice the way Tony’s muscles bulged as he strained to break the hold. They had torn their tee shirts off each other some time ago, and Tony’s ripped body, slick with sweat, heaved against his friend’s in ways that made Bruce’s head spin twice as much as the blows he had taken. It didn’t help that the warm glow from the flames in the huge fireplace not only cut the California night’s chill, but also etched every straining muscle in heart-stopping relief.

“Fucker. Fucker,” Tony growled weakly. “You’ve always been jealous of me. You’re trying to ruin me. Everyone wants to ruin me.”

“That’s paranoia from the withdrawal. You wanted to stop, remember?”

“Let me go! I need to get out of here! I hate this fucking house—I’ve always hated it!”

“This was your idea,” Bruce said gently. “Remember Thanksgiving? How your parents freaked out? You said you wanted to get clean then. You want to get clean, Tony.”

“I want you to get the fuck off me.”

“Only if you calm down.”

“Crawling,” Tony rasped. “Under my skin. Everything. All over my skin…. Hate you. I fucking hate you. Get your dirty faggot hands off me!”

Bruce steeled himself against the words and maintained his hold.

“I need to get out. You’re trying to rape me. You’re a fucking rapist. I don’t know why I’m friends with you. Let me go!”

“You need help. I’m helping you.”

Tony continued to struggle weakly. Finally, he gave a deep sigh of submission. Bruce eased his hold as Tony’s body relaxed. Wordlessly, Tony rolled over and hugged Bruce to his chest. Bruce responded without thinking. He returned the hug as if they were in bed together engaged in one of their platonic cuddles. Since becoming friends as teens, they had cuddled with each other, enjoying the sort of closeness they had never experienced as children and continued to miss in their busy, emotionally guarded lives. Although Tony fucked anything with a pussy and Bruce had swept through the male STEM faculty at Caltech like a plague; fucking didn’t replace the need for intimacy.

Tony’s arms closed tighter around his chest.

Bruce wondered, for a breathless instant, if Tony was about to crack his ribs in retaliation for the grapple and hold. But Tony buried his face against Bruce’s neck and sobbed brokenly. The sound rent Bruce’s heart in two.

“Lizard,” Tony gasped. “Lizard, little Lizard. No, no, no.”

Bruce no idea what or whom Tony was talking about. He hugged Tony closer and massaged up the back of his neck. He held his friend for a long time. “You’re going to be okay,” he whispered. “You’re strong. And you’re smart. And you’re Tony fucking Stark.”  


“I’m a genius.”

Bruce grunted and kneaded the base of Tony’s skull. “You’re a super genius.”

Tony’s strong hands rubbed Bruce’s back. Hot tears continued to wet Bruce’s neck, turning cold as they slid down his clavicle and caught in his chest hair. Bruce kissed the side of Tony’s head and nuzzled against him. His love for this man defied words. They were more than best friends. They were like brothers. But they were closer than that. This was the deepest relationship in Bruce’s life. Tony knew more about him than his boyfriend. Tony knew even more about Bruce than his cousin, Jen. He would do anything for Tony.

Absolutely anything.

Tony’s chest lifted against him. “Suck me,” Tony mumbled.

Except that.

“We agreed not to—”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, you fucking Benji dog. Suck my dick.”

“We don’t do that,” Bruce said nervously. His cock twitched every time Tony said ‘suck.’ “We’re friends, not lovers.”

Tony made a miserable sound that vibrated against Bruce’s flesh. “I need it,” said Tony. “I need it to take my mind off— I need it to keep my skin still.” He continued when Bruce balked. “I need pleasure. I need release. Please. Do it.”

“I can’t. You’re not in your right mind. We’re friends. That’s too important to me.”

“Fucking pussy. We’ll still be friends after. Nothing will change. Just I’ll feel less tortured and you’ll have a bellyful of sperm.”

Blood swarmed into Bruce’s cock in such a rush, it pulled a breath between his lips. “So,” he paused, struggling to rationalize what he knew was wrong, “it’ll be a form of therapy, really.” He shut his eyes weakly as Tony sucked his neck. They had only had sex once. They had agreed—both agreed—that they should only be friends. Tony wasn’t gay. And Bruce had a boyfriend now—a nice, normal monogamous boyfriend, and Bruce cared for and respected him a great deal….

Tony’s hand slid down Bruce’s stomach, his fingers stroking his sides, his thumb pressing into the vertical line dividing Bruce’s taut abdomen. Butterflies fluttered beneath Bruce’s naval. He groaned.

No. This was wrong. Having sex with Tony now would be taking advantage of him. Tony was in pain—physical and psychological. Tony didn’t know what he was doing—

Tony gripped Bruce’s clavicle between his teeth and kneaded its length from chest to shoulder. Bruce’s brain fought the happy chemicals overwhelming it. He whispered hoarsely, “Maybe—maybe a hand—” His cock, tight and swollen, had risen well above the waistband of his silky bikini underwear. It pulsed against his stomach.

Tony must have felt it too. He pulled away slightly and squeezed Bruce’s shaft, wringing a droplet of precum from his slit. Bruce watched him as if in a stupor.

With a smirk, Tony smeared the glistening bead down and pushed a hard, sticky finger into Bruce’s navel. Bruce dropped as if from a blow. He had Tony’s thick glans in his mouth before he had managed to tug the inventor’s underwear down.

Tony fell back on the silk persian rug with a soft, grateful moan. He clamped a hand behind Bruce’s head and thrust deep into Bruce’s throat. Bruce gagged a little. He wasn’t used to sucking a cock as big as Tony’s. He eased off, fighting against the press of Tony’s insistent hand. Another hard thrust. Again the cock went too deep, denting the soft flesh of Bruce’s throat. Bruce gave Tony’s sack a light squeeze.

Tony’s ass pressed against the rug, giving Bruce more room. Bruce slid back and tongued the edges of Tony’s glans while giving him some hard suction. He milked a copious amount of precum from Tony’s slit, letting it coat the back the back of his throat with numbing sweetness. He couldn’t help the needy moan that escaped him; Tony was just so fucking hot!

Bruce took Tony deep, letting that meaty head punch well past his uvula, thud against his wall, and slide deep into his throat. Tony’s thigh muscles gathered beneath Bruce’s hands. “Oh, God—Bruce!” he whispered.

Bruce’s head swam. He pulled halfway up the shaft. Hearing Tony say his name like that— Everything in his body blazed and fluttered. He felt weak. He didn’t resist as Tony gripped a handful of his hair and pushed, hard, into Bruce’s throat. His blood pounded in his ears. Bruce, who always preferred to be in control, relinquished it completely.

He let Tony pull them sideways, then over, let Tony straddle his head. Tony full on face-fucked Bruce, pushing his head while slamming into him with his hips. Bruce swallowed precum and spit; he fought to keep up. Tony grunted with each collision. Bruce no longer participated; he endured. He could taste blood. Each punch battered his already bruised throat, and the violence of each impact began to make his head ache.

But his erection remained in full bloom, not because he was a masochist—he hated pain—but because of the single, perfect thought swirling around in his head—his name, _his_ name on Tony’s breath.

Tony moaned, then gasped. Cum shot all down Bruce’s swelling throat and filled his mouth. Bruce swallowed and swallowed. Tony clawed Bruce up to his chest and held him in a vice-like grip. “Bruce.” He gave an uncharacteristic whimper and trembled against Bruce’s body.

Bruce kissed Tony’s chest and rubbed his shoulders. Although he began to ache with need, he remained close to Tony, holding him, listening to him breathe. He felt as if his pulse were as fickle as the firelight—a moment of brightness, a moment of shadow. Fade in. Fade out. Just whenever he thought he knew himself, he realized he didn’t know himself at all. What the fuck had just happened?

From within the depths of his mind, Hulk laughed at him. _He made you his bitch._

_Shut up._ Hulk had started out as something like an imaginary friend. And then he became a way to hide from his father. A shield against the fists. Against everything.

Bruce had created a monster. Now, he was stuck with him.

_What’s Seth gonna think? Huh? Ya gonna tell ‘em?_

_Just…let me enjoy this._

_Maybe Hulk tell him._

_SHUT UP!_

Bruce didn’t realize he had closed his eyes until Tony pulled his face up and placed a shaky kiss over his eyelid. Bruce blinked his eyes open and found Tony gazing at him in something that resembled open adoration.

Tony stroked along Bruce’s brow and cheekbone. “I kinda beat the shit out of you, huh, faggot-ass?”

Bruce didn’t like it when Tony called him ‘faggot-ass’ or ‘faggot’ anything. His jaw tightened.

Tony kissed the oozing cut above Bruce’s left eye.

“It’s okay,” Bruce said softly, his voice even softer as the tip of Tony’s nose skimmed his earlobe. “You’re going through a hard time. I’m here to help. Even if that means being your punching bag.” Tony’s breath, hot and humid, grazed Bruce’s neck. He nibbled the nearby hair at the roots. Bruce’s eyes practically rolled back in his head.

Tony hugged him gently. “Let’s sixty-nine.”

“What?”

“You didn’t get any last time.”

Bruce flinched as Tony cupped his cum-laden balls. They were so swollen. An evil ache bled into Bruce’s lower abdomen as Tony flirtily tumbled his balls. “That hurts,” Bruce said, an admonishment.

“Let’s fix that.” An invitation.

This had already gone— His breath caught as Tony pulled on his miserable, half-erect cock, firing it into full hardness.


	2. Chapter 2

They lay on their sides, next to each other on the ornately-patterned rug, head to cock. The fire bathed them in warm, undulating light. Bruce didn’t feel up to deep-throating Tony’s big cock again, so he mouthed up the shaft with his lips guarding his teeth and concentrated his efforts on the glans and the sensitive flesh surrounding it.

With impressive gentleness, Tony licked and stroked Bruce’s aching balls while tugging on his cock. His free hand rubbed Bruce’s stomach. He was surprisingly attentive for someone in his state.

Bruce had to pause, eyelids fluttering in ecstasy, as Tony’s hot mouth sucked up his cock. He smirked as Tony tried to take the entire thing and gagged. Their cocks were pretty close in size. But Bruce didn’t thrust into him. He held perfectly still, yielding control to his friend.

Bruce swirled his tongue around Tony’s glans, then sucked and pulled. He came off the cock to tongue the slit. All the while, he massaged Tony’s thighs and hips, using deep pressure, hoping to counteract some of Tony’s ‘coke bugs.’

On his end, Tony also concentrated on the glans. Bruce began to realize Tony was mimicking his moves. He took his time, savoring every sensation. When he felt Tony was beginning to flag, he urged him to come with rapid movements. Tony came, shivering, his cum thinner than the first time.

Bruce came immediately after him, the orgasm rolling through him and exploding as gizz into Tony’s mouth. Tony sat up, spitting up cum.

Bruce grabbed one of the nearby towels he had brought from the bathroom in case Tony’s withdrawal symptoms included vomiting. Tony shook, spraying cum on the persian rug. As worried about the rug as he was about Tony, Bruce gave Tony a towel and quickly wiped up the cum.

Tony, wiping his mouth, laughed at Bruce. “Don’t worry about the fucking rug.”

Bruce frowned at him. “Really? This looks like hand-knotted silk. It must be worth a couple of thousand dollars.”

“Try ninety thousand.” He shook his cock over the rug, droplets flying.

Bruce watched him in horror.

“It belongs to my parents. What the fuck do I care? They’re lucky I don’t shit on it.”

“Don’t take it out on the rug.” Bruce wiped up the new drops.

Tony laughed at him. “Oh, hey, Benji—”

Bruce smiled—that was the first name Tony had given him…because Bruce’s sad eyes and fucked up hair had reminded him of a stray dog in a movie.

“—your cum doesn’t suck or anything. Just…all that gizz.” He shuddered and rubbed his arms.

Bruce chuckled, but Tony continued rubbing his arms. Snot glazed the skin beneath his nose. He looked miserable. Bruce sat behind Tony and massaged his arms and shoulders. Periodically, Bruce paused to rub his hands together to provide some extra warmth.

After a time, Tony caught Bruce’s hands and pulled him close so that Bruce flattened against Tony’s back and draped over his shoulders like some sort of strange fur. They stayed like that for a time, with the crackle of the fireplace the only sound.

Tony seemed to be on the edge of sleep. “Would you like to go to bed?” Bruce whispered.

“I want to stay here.” He sounded disgruntled. “My head is so—there’s so much of it. Too much. The fire fills it up. And you. I—” He turned around and grabbed Bruce frantically. “You’re not leaving!”

Bruce hugged him tight. “I’m staying wherever you are.”

Tony heaved a great sigh. “The TV’s in the bedrooms can see everything. Everyone can see. We’re safe here.” He scratched his neck. “Except for the bugs.” He shuddered, clawing his neck. “The fucking bugs. It’s like _Creepshow_ up in this bitch.”

Bruce left Tony momentarily to grab his backpack from the couch. He dug inside the smallest pocket until he found the Valium he had brought. He planned on using Valium and weed to ease Tony into sobriety. Valium because, although it could be habit-forming, was a useful sedative. And pot because it was a fucking supplement. Someday, people would understand its usefulness.

He gave two pills to Tony, who took them without water. Bruce made a nest with pillows from the couch and the blankets he had brought from one of the bedrooms and laid Tony down beside him. Bruce smoothed his hand up and down Tony’s arm, hoping to settle the crawling sensations beneath the other boy’s skin.

“Thanks,” Tony mumbled, the Valium overtaking him. “I sorta love you, Benji.”

Moved and shocked, Bruce kissed the well-defined deltoid in front of him. “I love you too.”

“See?” said Tony drowsily. “Nothing changed.”

***

Tony woke, sat up, and stretched his arms over his head. He felt much better than the day before, but he was still jonesing for a little nose candy. Just a bump. Something small. Just a little wouldn’t hurt. He squeezed his hands and tried to steady his breath. No. That wasn’t what he wanted. Everything had become a blur, and none of it was fun anymore.

There had been a great rehab in Maui. Two solid weeks of grade A ass. He started using again at the airport. No one even noticed. Back home, he had lunch with his mom and embarrassed her by showing up buzzed and trying to pick up her friend with the great new boob job. Countess Horseface somebody or other. She really should have gotten another facelift to go with those hot new tits. A fucking sense of humor might have been a good investment too.

So there was another rehab, in Santa Fe this time. That one had been filled with bad little starlets. Little L.A. snow angels pretending to be good but so eager to be bad. After a week of fake tans and fake cans, he went home to New York and started going to NA meetings. Those were the best places to score. And everything had gone back to his new normal—parties, blow, babes, blow, cars, blow.

Until Lizard O.D.’d. Little Lizzie with her huge smile and long legs. She welded crazy works of art—surreal, terrifying. He invested in her and felt like a fucking Medici. She was going places; she would take the world by storm. He had introduced her to his favorite drug. _You’ll be able to stay up all night—produce twice as much work._ She had loved him. He had tried to ignore it, because he had no time for romantic entanglements. But the signs were there. He knew.

It wasn’t his fault that she started shooting. It wasn’t his fault she couldn’t handle her shit. And yet, when he closed his eyes, he kept seeing her face—that bright little face, Creole green eyes wide as he fucked her against one of her metal goliaths, her welding mask lifted and smacking against the top of his head.

And then one day she was dead. He had found her. Days. It had been days. Rats were eating her face, had exposed her skull. And he was supposed to have a happy Thanksgiving with his parents and all of their insipid friends. All babbling about investments, yachts, fad diets, botox. Nauseating. He remembered using in the guest bathroom near the formal dining room. He remembered inviting half the catering staff to join him. He remembered downing a bottle of something with one of the bartenders. He didn’t remember climbing up on one of the tables and pissing on the oyster dressing. And he didn’t remember yelling at all of the guests that they were a bunch of fat old fucks and dried-up cunts and that his parents only invited them because they were too shallow to make real friends. (Even sober, he stood by that assessment.)

Fuuuck. He rubbed his hands down his arms. He needed some blow. He could take one of the cars. He’d only be gone a few minutes. Maybe…. Bruce probably wouldn’t even miss him.

Bruce…. A strange sensation, having nothing to do with cocaine withdrawal, buzzed through Tony’s head. He felt the spot where Bruce should have been and found it warm. Bruce was still close. The thought shouldn’t have pleased him. He needed to escape.

But he just sat there in a pile of blankets on an overpriced rug. He stared at the charred logs in the fireplace and remembered when a fire had blazed there. The memory mesmerized him. These feelings…they were just confusion from the withdrawal. Kicking always made him horny.

He wasn’t attracted to men. Not usually. And yet, he always liked the way Bruce’s body felt beneath his hands. And he seemed to know what Tony needed—where to touch, how much pressure. It didn’t seem so much a matter of skill as a kind of telepathy. They connected. They connected in every conceivable way.

“I know, but I’m employing the Johansen-Hirawa method. As long as Patient A is responding, I see no reason to alter the treatment.” Bruce’s voice—very businesslike and approaching from the kitchen. “Yes, technically cocaine withdrawal lasts twenty-four hours, but you know as well as I that the primary mechanism of addiction is psychological…. Yes, I take your point, but I disagree.” A long pause. “I’m going to evaluate progress using the Forman metrics.”

Bruce walked into the sitting room holding a beige wireless phone and a holding a large glass full of something green. His clothes suggested he was ready for the day—he was dressed in jeans and a Jesus and Mary Chain tee shirt—but his face was bruised up and his bloodshot eyes looked like they’d never closed for sleep. He smiled when he saw Tony and rested the phone against his shoulder. “I was just coming to wake you.” The phone burbled into his shoulder. Bruce didn’t seem to notice. He closed the distance between them and handed the drink to Tony. “Bottoms up.”

He sighed and returned the phone to his ear. “Umhmn. Alright. In any case, I’m staying until I’m no longer needed…. I’m sorry you feel that way…. Right. Have a nice day.”

Bruce hung up the phone and reduced its telescoping silver antenna. He watched Tony with soft eyes. “That’s a smoothie made with spirulina and kale. It’s very good for you.” He dug into the pocket of his jeans and held out his palm, displaying two white pills. “Valium. This will help calm some of the withdrawal-associated anxiety.”

Tony grabbed the pills and chewed them up. Fuck whatever this green shit was. “Who were you talking to?”

Bruce looked at the phone he was holding as if he’d never seen it before. “Oh. Yes. That. That was Seth.”

“Your boyfriend?” Tony had assumed it was a professor or a supervisor—perhaps a consultant.

Bruce cringed slightly. “I’m sorry. He’s a psychiatrist, remember? I needed lots of Valium for this. He can write scripts. And I thought it might be useful to discuss certain aspects of your case with him. I kept it anonymous—I swear. He has no idea who you are.”

Tony could give a shit. His face was all over the tabloids as it was. Rich, handsome, fallen. People ate that shit up with a spoon. “That’s how you talk to your boyfriend?”

“Well…yes.” Apparently, Bruce’s feet had become very interesting.

“Instead of ‘good-bye’ or ‘I love you,’ you said ‘have a nice day. What the fuck, Mr. Spock?’”

Bruce glared at him. “I don’t think that matters.”

Tony smirked. “Wait, is this the episode where I teach you how to act human? Those are my favorites. Seriously.” He stretched out an arm and flailed the other against his chest. Making his voice really high, he said, “ _What is…love?_ "

Bruce continued to stare at him sternly. “Do you think you’re living in a TV show? Maybe I should call Seth back.”

“Goddamn. Someone woke up on the bitch side of the bed.”

“You mean the floor?”

Tony ignored him and took a sip of his drink. He leaned back against the couch. “This actually doesn’t suck.”

“Thanks.” Bruce beamed. “That kitchen is insane! The pantry is larger than my efficiency.”

Tony shrugged. “Yeah. I guess this is a cute little house.”

“It has nine bedrooms.”

“Yeah, it’s kinda small.” He knew Bruce was kind of a cold fish to the world at large, but he’d always been a warm, giggling goofball with Tony. It didn’t make sense that he would be so aloof with his steady gopher hole. “So, are you two fucking?”

Bruce pulled blankets off the floor and folded them. “Yes.” Bruce sounded offended.

“Is it boring?” Tony took a big sip of his drink.

“No.” Bruce laughed. “It’s the best part, actually.” He grinned. “He’s taught me a few things. Psychiatrists are kinky motherfuckers.”

Tony drank his smoothie and tried to pretend he didn’t give a shit. It shouldn’t have saddened him to think of his fucktard friend in some cold, loveless relationship, but it did.

***

Tony showed Bruce the pools and enjoyed his reaction to the waterfall and grotto. They stripped off their clothes and swam together for a while, then splashed into the hot tub to smoke a joint. Tony felt considerably better after the Valium and pot. At least they had taken the edge off his cravings. He sat beside a jet and let the water shoot past his side and leg until the sensation began to annoy him more than it soothed. He moved to the center, then sat beside Bruce, who, with his head angled back, looked as if he might fall asleep.

Tony crept up close. “BRUCE!”

Bruce flailed awake. Something strange flashed in his eyes for an instant. Something angry. For a second, Tony thought his friend might actually take a swing at him. But the next second, Bruce’s eyelashes fluttered stupidly, and he cracked a lopsided grin at him. “You scared me.”

“Duh. You were about to have to clean the shit out of my hot tub, faggot-ass.” He leaned his shoulder against Bruce’s. “What’s the plan for today? Just eating Valiums like M & M’s and getting stoned? Is this your idea of rehab?”

Bruce caught Tony’s hand beneath the water and squeezed it. He was such a fag sometimes. “The physical withdrawal only lasts about twenty-four hours. I’m sure you remember that from previous rehabs.”

“Yeah. So, we’re almost done.”

“The psychological addiction is the most difficult part with coke. I think that’s why those fancy-ass spa-getaway rehabs your mom’s been sending you to have failed. They act like you’re all cured in a week. It takes longer than that.”

“I always got clean in rehab. I never scored.” Tony frowned at Bruce. “You can score in rehab. Big time.” He smirked. “You can get laid too. I did plenty of that.”

Bruce laughed. “Of course, you did.”

Tony couldn’t look at Bruce suddenly. He drowned his gaze beneath the hot tub’s bubbling currents. “I always fail,” he said softly. “I never failed at anything until I started trying to get clean.”

Beneath the water, Bruce’s hand squeezed his. “You didn’t fail. Those stupid rehabs failed you. They didn’t give you the tools you need to reclaim your life, and they didn’t give you enough time to adjust to living clean.” He pulled Tony’s hand from the water and kissed it, then turned around to face outside the hot tub, water from his forearms darkening the white stone rim.

Tony watched Bruce pull his jeans toward him, dragging them across the cement. Bruce pulled out a soft pack of Camels. Tony decided to call foul. “HEY!” He pointed a dripping hand at Bruce’s cigarettes. “How can you help me when you’re a fucking addict too?”

Bruce said nothing, glaring, and stubbornly put his cigarette in his mouth and started to light it.

“No. Fuck that. You can’t smoke in my house.”

Bruce’s lighter sparked, but wouldn’t flame. Ha ha. Bruce frowned at his lighter. Somehow, the supposed genius didn’t comprehend the thing was out of juice. Tard. 

In a surly voice, Bruce said, “I’m not _in_ your house.”

“Not in my house. Not on my grounds—”

Bruce shook his lighter. “ _Not in a box. Not with a fox._ ”

“You have to quit smoking,” said Tony. “If I’m quitting coke, you have to quit smoking cigarettes.”

“You can’t be serious.” He laughed, a small nervous laugh. “You’ve been into coke what—maybe a year? Maybe less? I’ve been smoking cigarettes since I was fifteen.” He stroked the Camel package forlornly. “These are like my friends. There’s Morning and Midday, Three O’clock, Before Dinner, Before Bed, Sweet Finish to a Joint. They’re always there when I need them. They’re—”

“Do you hear yourself talking about this shit??? You’re a fucking junkie!” He picked up Bruce’s pack of cigarettes and threw them into the nearest pool. “You’re not smoking another fucking cigarette while you’re here. Not another fucking one!”

Bruce stared at Tony with a tormented expression. “Will,” he paused to swallow dryly. “Will this help you?”

“Yes.”

Bruce looked away. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes. At last his gaze returned to Tony and he said, “Just so we’re clear, you do realize that some researchers have compared quitting smoking to kicking heroin?”

Tony simmered for a moment before roaring, “FINE! Don’t quit. Just be a fucking hypocrite, then. See if I care!” He pushed away from Bruce and sat at the other end. “But don’t expect me to respect you. And don’t be surprised when I don’t listen to your bullshit.” He couldn’t even look at stupid fucking Bruce anymore. “Best friend. Fuck that.” Bizarrely, tears threatened in his eyes. His nose began to run. Even his body was betraying him. “I don’t need your bullshit, dude. I really don’t need your bullshit.”

Bruce stopped fumbling with his lighter and left it and his morning cig behind as he moved close to Tony and hugged him. Tony snuffled on Bruce’s shoulder and wiped his nose in Bruce’s hair. Bruce held Tony gently and stroked his back. “I love you. That isn’t bullshit.” He pulled back, looking into Tony’s eyes. “I’ll quit. We’ll do this together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I won't let them kill each other. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Stupid fucking Bruce’s physical withdrawal lasted three days. He didn’t get horny. He just slunk around like he’d been gut-shot and whined about his head like a little bitch.

Their rehab turned into a couch potato festival. They sat around in their underwear, wrapped in blankets, watching the television on the leather sectional in the den. Desert Storm was all over TV, but they had only watched a little of it before Bruce wanted to stop.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce told him. “This seems sensationalistic and horrible. We’re sitting here eating Cheerios watching people die. It’s just little blips of light, but those are real people out there dying.”

Tony agreed with him. He had been relieved when Bruce wanted to stop. The blips of light trailing through static and darkness raised the hair on his arms somehow. Although he had been too young to remember it, he knew some of the news footage of the Vietnam War had been grisly. This footage, so sterile, so removed, felt more disturbing than if there had been blood and guts all over the screen. Even the new language being coined in this war was horrible. The oxymoron “strategic strikes” and the Orwellian “collateral damage.” And yet, he turned to Bruce and said, “What do you think will happen with the bombs you’re going to make? Are they going to rain gumballs and Carebears?”

“I haven’t made any yet.” Bruce huddled deeper into his blankets.

Tony wanted to say something to him, but felt too tired to bother, so they watched pathetic women on some stupid talk show whine about their boyfriends while audience members scolded them. Stew called. Bruce puttered off with the phone to talk to him in private. After a while, he returned looking even more bummed than when he left. He collapsed in his blanket heap.

Tony picked at his cuticle. “This one’s about paternity tests. They’re trying to figure out who the dads are.”

“Cool.” His voice wasn’t even sarcastic, just listless.

“Everything okay with Stew?”

“Seth. His name’s Seth.” Under his breath Bruce muttered, “For about the fourteen billionth time.”

“He okay?”

“Yeah. He’s fine. Who do you thinks the real dad?”

Tony decided to let him change the subject. “In that first couple?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s gotta be that guy on the left, right?”

“Yeah, gotta be.”

“That kid looks just like him.”

Bruce snickered. “It does, actually.”

“I used to think babies didn’t look like anything, but that little fucker looks just like that guy.” Tony felt upset suddenly. “Fucking asshole.” He threw a dry Cheerio at the big screen TV. “Fucking shirking son-of-a-bitch. You didn’t need to come on a talk show to know that butt-ugly baby is yours.”

After a few more shows, the floor in front of the television was littered with dry Cheerios. Silly Bruce hadn’t been able to join the fun because he’d eaten his with milk like a loser. Bruce looked like he was fading out, so Tony kicked him awake. “We have a bunch of videos,” said Tony. “You wanna watch movies?”

Bruce squinted at him like a sleepy hamster suddenly exposed to light. Tony took this as assent, so they watched a butt-load of movies. They also watched practically every episode Tony had taped of _Ren and Stimpy_ and all of Bruce’s _The Kids in the Hall_.

By the second day, Bruce didn’t even leave the couch to make green smoothies or pot patties (turkey for Tony and black bean for Bruce), forcing Tony to provide them with nourishment—microwaved Hot Pockets and thin mints. Tony watched Bruce remove the minuscule cubes of pepperoni and had to resist the urge to punch him in the face. “Right. You’re a vegetarian,” he snarled. “I forgot.”

Bruce gave a small shrug. “Yeah, I’m used to it. It’s okay.”

“Why do you make that sound like you’re forgiving me?”

“Because I am.” He extracted another piece of pepperoni carefully. “I do.”

“He said like a condescending piece of shit. What terrible crime have I committed, huh?”

“Not a terrible crime. Just—I know you forget stuff you deem trivial. Like that I’m a vegetarian or my birthday or my boyfriend’s name or that I don’t like being popped in the gnads.”

“I remembered your birthday.”

“No…. Maybe you remembered somebody’s birthday….” Bruce smiled a patronizing smile. “Very good, Tony. That’s progress. You’re almost a real boy.”

Tony snapped up and tossed blankets and pillows and crap around until he unearthed his luggage. He dug out a cd and threw it at Bruce. “Happy fucking birthday, asshat.”

Bruce picked it up and examined it. “Right, see? How do you feel now?” said Tony. “Your birthday is December—sometime in December that isn’t Christmas.”

Bruce looked at him with a mystified expression. “That’s right.” He held up the CD. “And I even like Peter Murphy.”

“Of course you do. He looks like a douchebag, and he sounds like he has a Habitrail up his ass.”

“Yeah, he’d be so much cooler if he pretended to worship the devil and hung effigies of midgets on stage.” Bruce looked down at the CD and smiled. “You remembered my birthday,” he said in a small voice. “Thanks.”

Tony flopped next to him to watch him open it. “There were some other things too, but my parents started getting stingy with my allowance.” He sighed. “I have a Master’s Degree from MIT, and I’m screwed if Mommy and Daddy want to fuck me on my allowance.” He tried to shrug it off. “Anyway, I had a few more things for you, but I sorta had to liquidate some of my assets.”

“It’s okay.” Bruce smiled shyly. “This is great.”

Tony pointed to the album’s title. “ _Deep._ That’s where he keeps his hamsters.”

***

On the third day, Bruce seemed sicker than he had the first two. Tony, on the other hand, felt a good deal better. Tony considered leaving to score. Bruce wouldn’t be able to stop him. But then Bruce begged Tony to bring him some orange juice.

Tony gave him a New Coke. This should have provoked his favorite butt pirate in two ways. First, he knew Bruce was still boycotting Coca Cola because they had continued operating in South Africa despite the country’s system of apartheid. The company had attempted to repair its public image in 1986 with a partial divestiture, but they were still conducting business there—and Bruce carried grudges. Second, it was a New Coke, which tasted kind of like Pepsi or some dead donkey’s ass. (As opposed to Coke Classic, which tasted like live donkey ass.)

Bruce sipped it delicately without saying anything. Worried, Tony sank to the couch beside him. Bruce just sat there. Tony left him to sift through the videotapes and popped _Weird Science_ into the VCR. It wasn’t a great movie, but the guy who played ‘Ian’ was really handsome. He thought Bruce would like that. And they loved ripping into the flawed science in movies and TV shows together.

Tony felt tired and slowed, but Bruce had the energy of a turtle on smack. He didn’t say anything about the stupid movie. Even when Tony asked him if he thought the ‘Ian’ dude was hot, Bruce only shrugged.

Tony microwaved some frozen mozzarella sticks. Vegetarian—just for Bruce—how thoughtful was that? And sat them in front of his zombie friend. The cheese had kinda oozed all over the plate and solidified into a rubbery mass, but it was edible. He clucked as if calling a dog. “Brucie. Din-din.”

Bruce planted his fork in it like a flag on the moon. “Cool.”

Ungrateful motherfucker. Tony put in _Star Trek V: The Final Frontier,_ quite possibly the worst Star Trek movie ever made. This garnered not so much as a peep from Bruce. Tony sat on the other side of the overstuffed leather sectional and cut his stiff cheese blob up with the side of his fork. He laughed out loud at the bad movie and tried to forget that he was jonesing.

Tony put his plate in the sink. He returned to find Bruce, his untouched plate beside him on the couch, holding his head in his hands. Tony felt restless. He felt like going clubbing. A little night air would do him some good. Some strange, a little blow…just a little…just enough….

As if he had heard his thoughts, Bruce sat up and gave him a weak smile. “Back for more scintillating conversation?”

Tony felt kind of shitty. Bruce looked really sick. “Yeah, you’re a lot of fun tonight.” He sat on the other end of the couch. “That headache still kicking your ass?”

“It’s still there.”

“You should eat.” Tony lifted the plate of cheese glob and nudged Bruce’s arm with it. “C’mon. What did you say? ‘Gotta get some groceries in you?’”

“I get it. I’m obnoxious. Thanks.”

Tony set the plate on the cocktail table and let his feet take its place. “Guess what?”

Bruce held his head and didn’t look up. “What?”

“I have lasers in my feet.” He tapped Bruce’s hip with each of his big toes. “Pew. Pew-pew.”

Bruce looked at him askance.

“Know what else?”

Bruce sighed. “What?”

“The rugs are acid and the floor is lava. Right now, your feet are being dissolved by acid.”

“It’s citric acid. They’re just being exfoliated.”

Tony withheld a laugh, so it came out as a ‘hmph’ instead. He toe-poked Bruce’s shoulder. “Pew.” Then his ribs. “Pew.” Bruce wasn’t even trying to defend himself, which kind of sucked. He usually liked stupid, childish games. “Pew-pew!” Tony rammed Bruce’s side with the ball of his foot—not just hard, but pretty fucking hard—hard enough to pull a grunt of breath from Sour Pussy.

“Mother. Fucker!” Bruce curled up on the couch, holding his side. “What the fuck, asshole?”

“It’s a Deusenhalf variant equipped with laser cannons.” That creative burst of hilarity only earned a heaping helping of douche-face.

Bruce sighed. “The couch is a plutonium pit. Our asses are neutrons. Blam. We’re both dead.” He lay on his side and pulled his knees to his chest. “Game over.”

“You escalated too quickly. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

Bruce groaned. “God, you suck.” He flashed Tony a hateful look. “My head hurts; I’m bone-tired; I can’t sleep, and I haven’t taken a shit in three days.”

Tony practically laughed himself off the couch. He sobered after several minutes. “This is from not smoking?”

“It’s nicotine withdrawal,” Bruce said miserably. “The third day should be the worst of the physical withdrawal. But getting through it….”

Tony couldn’t help gloating. “It’s really kicking your ass, huh?” Bruce only stared at him in stony silence. “You know,” said Tony, “I know you’re kind of a pussy, but three days isn’t really that long—”

“I’m a vegetarian. That’s like forever.” Bruce buried his head in his knees. “I’m sure living off garbage hasn’t helped.”

“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Benji.”

“You’ve been great. I’m sorry.”

“Besides, your pooper getting backed up isn’t my fucking problem.”

Bruce groaned listlessly. “Please don’t euphemize my anatomy.”

Tony sighed. “You look tired. Why don’t you go to sleep?”

Bruce didn’t lift his head. “I can’t sleep.”

Tony picked up the remote and clicked off the TV. He stood up and pulled Bruce with him. “Come on. We’re going to bed.” Bruce resisted, but not much. Tony led him to the master bedroom and slung him on the bed. Bruce grumbled, but crawled under the covers. Tony followed suit. He would put Benji to sleep, then go out.

Bruce lay on his side, facing outward. Tony spooned against him. He nuzzled Bruce’s hair, then massaged Bruce’s scalp, starting at the back and working his way forward. He changed hands, then let his free hand drift down Bruce’s body. He rubbed his friend from chest to groin. He could tell, just by feeling him, that he was bloated. He rubbed Bruce’s stomach gently. “You’re full of shit.”

“So funny,” Bruce said in a weak voice.

Tony continued rubbing and petting him lovingly. After a time, Bruce said, “I’m supposed to be helping _you_.”

“You didn’t know how bad it was going to be.”

After a brief pause, Bruce said, “I kind of did, actually. But I didn’t realize how hard it would hit me. I thought I was tougher than I am. As usual.”  
Feeling overwhelmed with affection, Tony brushed his van dyke against Bruce’s neck. “I don’t know. You’re the toughest little crybaby wimp I know.”

“Har har.” Bruce’s voice was a whisper. He burrowed closer to Tony.

Tony kissed Bruce’s neck, then rested his nose against it. He could feel when Bruce relaxed and fell asleep. Now was the time to escape. Absently, he rubbed Bruce’s chest and stomach. He held Bruce close and listened to his sleeping breaths. He snuggled closer. Later. He would go out later. As if of their own accord, his eyes shut.

***

Bruce rolled over, waking, morning sun in his eyes. He noticed the vacant spot beside him with a shiver of fear.

_Ya fucked up, huh? He’s gone. Tony’s getting SMASHED!_

_Shut up._

_Weak, stupid Bruce. Let Tony down. Weak, stupid Bruce._

He checked the bathroom despite hearing no fans or water.

Hulk continued, delighted. _He could be using. He could be dead. You let him die. You let your mom die. Now you let Tony die. Why do you let everyone die, Bruce?_

 _Shut the fuck up, Hulk._ “Tony? TONY???”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trivia: The character of Ian in _Weird Science_ is played by RDJ. No wonder Tony thought Bruce would think he's hot.
> 
> Correction: The aerial bombardment of Iraq in the First Gulf War (Desert Storm) actually began in January 1991. In this story, it begins in 1990 for--ahem--artistic purposes. (This is what happens when my betas are busy.)


	4. Chapter 4

When there was no answer, Bruce walked to the intercom and depressed the button. “Tony?”

Tony’s voice sounded from the intercom. “ _Happy, happy_.”

Relief washed over Bruce. He depressed the button. “ _Joy, joy_.” He grinned. “Where the fuck are you?”

“The second level garage.”

Bruce tamped down his alarm. “What are you doing there?”

“Get your happy ass over here and find out.”

“Okay.” At least he didn’t seem to be trying to take one of the cars out.

***

About fifteen minutes later, Bruce joined him. He was beaming. “So, what are you doing?”

Tony looked up from his tools. “You deliver a turd-baby this morning?”

“Yep. Eight pounds, three ounces. And it looked just like you.”

Tony rubbed his chin. “Damn. You must have the handsomest shits on the planet.”

Suddenly Bruce made a sort of small, strangled sound. “What’s Delilah doing here? What are you doing to her?!”

“You named that heap of scrap metal?”

Bruce frowned at him. “Yes. I did. What do you think you’re doing to my car?”

Tony scratched his head with a socket wrench. Delilah the Datsun. Wow. Just fucking wow. “I needed something to do. You were dead to the world, so I thought I’d fix up your lame-ass junker.”

“Oh.” He blinked at Tony. “Care to walk me through it?”

Tony was only too happy to oblige. “I started out free-form, but—” He pointed out his diagram to Bruce. “I ended up blueprinting some of the finer parts.”

Bruce studied the diagram with interest. “This is impressive,” he said quietly. He looked up with a grin. “You’re trying to engineer an alternate power source.”

“That part has some holes in it,” Tony admitted. “I’m still working out the bugs.”

Bruce looked at him with a quiet excitement. “Can I help?”

Tony smiled. “You have to. It’s your stupid fucking lemon, after all.”

***

They fucked around with Bruce’s car all day. Redesigning, designing, pulling everything apart, rebuilding. The dismantling part seemed to make Bruce nervous at first, much to Tony’s amusement. But he relaxed whenever they began to innovate.

Tony relaxed too. He was surprised when he looked up and realized the day had almost gone by and he hadn’t thought about coke in hours. No sooner had he thought that, however, than his heart sank. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life hanging out with Bruce building shit. So what if he’d been able to go a few hours without a craving? So fucking what?

“This is all just bullshit,” he told Bruce finally. “It’s a fucking lie built on an impossible promise.”

Bruce cocked his head like that ugly little dog in those movies. “I think we’ve made some real progress. The car’s kinda scary now, but some of these designs—”

“Not the car, faggot-ass. This wack-ass rehab shit of yours.” He pushed the sweat off his forehead. “You must have been smoking crack when you came up with this retarded scheme. Ass-crack—your favorite fucking faggot-ass kind of crack.”

Bruce gave him the stink eye for almost a full minute, then disappeared, allegedly to get a drink of water. Tony wondered if he was dropping another load. He continued working on the car. As a few more minutes dragged by, he wondered if Bruce was sneaking a cigarette somewhere. He went looking for him and found him sitting beside the largest pool, the one that looked out over the mountains.

“Hey, Faggot-ass. You better not be lighting up.”

Bruce glared around at him. “I’m not.” But his right hand rested against his knee, posed as if a cigarette were in it. He turned back to the view. As Tony sat down beside him, Bruce’s gaze remained fixed on the mountains. “Fresh air break,” he said, his voice softer but dark.

Tony held his toes and bent them back. “Fresh air break. That’s about the faggiest fucking thing I’ve heard you say in—maybe ever.” He bent his toes back further, enjoying the stretch. “It’s like a-Christmas-platter-of-dick-butter-with-a-big-monster-wheel-of-cum-cheese faggy.”

Bruce’s shoulders twitched like a vulture settling its wings. “I don’t like that word.”

“Which word? Christmas…or…cheese?”

“Faggot!” Bruce snapped. His right hand pissily flicked an imaginary ash from an imaginary cigarette. “And any of its derivatives!”

Tony smirked. “Faggot. Faggot, faggot, faggot, faggot, faggot, faggot.”

Bruce wriggled and growled beside him like a surly chimp.

Tony lay back and stretched out, perversely enjoying himself. “So, speaking of faggotry, let’s examine your love life for a minute.” Bruce didn’t say anything. “A bunch of profs and now this new guy. He’s like, what, sixty-eight or something?”

“Thirty-one,” he answered without even a trace of amusement.

“What the fuck are you doing, Bruce? Do you just like fucking dust and mothballs?” No response. “I get it. You have daddy issues. But fuck, dude—”

“Brian’s the first one who ever called me that,” said Bruce in a sharp whisper.

Tony looked at Bruce in surprise. “What?”

“Brian,” Bruce said stiffly. “My father. I was five. He called me faggot. I’d never heard that word before. I had no idea what it meant.” The shadow of a smile crossed his face. “I was practically asexual when I was five. I didn’t love boys or men or anyone. I loved my chemistry set and peanut butter cups. I wanted to live with my mom forever. I would grow up, and we’d live in a big white house with hydrangeas out front; I would be a scientist, and she would play the piano and cut the crusts off my bread.”

Tony grinned, raising up on his elbows. “That’s the saddest, nerdiest shit I’ve ever heard.”

Bruce smiled bashfully. He seemed about to say something, but bit his lips together.

“I wanted to marry Taz the Tasmanian Devil.” Tony grinned at the sky. “I liked when he would pretend to be a girl and wear a wedding veil and lipstick. I went to a few weddings when I was little. I thought it would be cool if I married Taz, and he tore through the wedding cake and all of the flowers.”

“Yeah,” Bruce nodded. “When I was seven, I had a crush on Peter O’Toole.”

“The actor? That might be weirder than Taz.”

“At least mine’s human. And real.”

“Fine. Be that way.”

Bruce sighed. “That’s when I started realizing I liked men. My father would go out drinking. Mom would let me stay up. Maybe she was lonely…I don’t know. Anyway, we’d watch old movies, things like _Laurence of Arabia_ and _The Lion in Winter_. I fell in love with Peter O’Toole.”

“That name’s pornographic as fuck.”

“Somewhere around then I discovered what faggot meant. I remember wondering how my father knew. How did he know before I did? I wondered what else he was right about.” He hugged his legs closer to his chest. “For a year I thought I deserved every beating he gave me. I was a faggot. I was monster. So it was okay.”

“That’s fucked up,” Tony said softly.

Bruce swallowed. “But then he killed her, and I knew he was evil.” He turned to Tony suddenly with cold eyes. “When you call me faggot or faggot-ass, it hurts. It’s a term of oppression—not just out there—but for me, personally.”

Their eyes stayed locked for a long moment. Then Tony said, “What about butt pirate?”

Bruce flung himself back and landed with a soft thud beside Tony. He laughed weakly, an arm across his face. “Sadly, I kind of like when you call me butt pirate.”

“Ass clown?”

“Yeah, that too. All of the rest are okay.” He looked at Tony from beneath his arm. “But just for me, okay? Don’t call other people those things. You don’t know how they’ve been hurt.”

Tony sat with that for a minute. He rubbed Bruce’s chest with his knuckles. “I can see how that would be fucked up.”

A silence fell around them. Tony noticed Bruce’s hand poised beside him, an imaginary cigarette wiggling between his bent index and middle fingers. “You’re missing it, huh?”

Bruce turned a scowl at him. “You’re a selfish bastard, Anthony Stark.”

“Wha—”

“I had a perfectly legal, more or less socially acceptable means of easing my stress, but you wanted someone to suffer with you. It wasn’t enough that I wanted to help you—you had to make sure it sucked for me as much as possible.”

“Dude, I’ve dated girls with PMS who didn’t Jekyll and Hyde this fast. Calm your jets, asshole.”

“Calm,” Bruce sneered. “That’s right. Calm. You have no idea how hard it is for me to stay calm. You have no idea the things I struggle with.” Grief overtook his anger suddenly. “And you don’t care. That’s the really shitty part. You don’t fucking care.” He rolled away, turning his back to Tony.

Tony stared at the multi-hued sky—a swath of purple bleeding into a layer of rose, which cleared into a lake of orange. The bright colors and gilt-edged clouds reminded him of a sunset when he was sixteen, coming down from acid, riding in Bruce’s ugly-ass car. “My favorite uncle died of lung cancer.”

Bruce, his back to Tony, sniffled. “I’m sorry.”

“He had been a test pilot when he was young. He was a professor of anthropology by the time I came along. He traveled all over the world.” He smiled at Bruce’s back. “You would have liked him. He was nuts. Think Indiana Jones crossed with Margaret Mead.” He paused for Bruce to giggle and continued when it didn’t happen. “He never married; he was too busy adventuring. Whenever I saw him, he always had cool stories, cool presents. Even when I was little, he treated me like I was an adult. He respected me and listened.” He bit his lip. “I don’t think I ever saw him without a cigarette in his hand. Uncle Max was only a few years older than my mom. He should still be around.”

Bruce flipped onto his stomach and stared at Tony. He didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t want you to quit to be spiteful. I wanted you to quit because I can’t stand it. Every time I see you suck on one of those cancer sticks, it’s like I’m watching you kill yourself, and I sorta want to punch your lights out for being a selfish piece of shit.”

Bruce smiled. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

***

Since Bruce was alive enough to cook again, he decided to fix dinner. Although he had bought some groceries on his way to the house, he enjoyed exploring all of the strange canned goods in the huge pantry. He collected jars of several different kinds of olives to put in the salad he was making.

“Your apartment _is_ about this size, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Good thing you’re a little dude.”

Bruce sighed. “We’re about the same size.”

“You seem smaller.”

Bruce handed Tony some olives and picked up an interesting looking tin. “What do capers taste like?”

“Shit.” Tony examined the jars Bruce had given him. “And salt. They’re like dried up salty shit. You’ll probably love it. Probably remind you of eating ancient prof ass.”

“Oh, then we’re definitely opening that.” He added it to Tony’s armful.

“What’s up with you and geezers anyway?”

Bruce paused to shoot a reprimanding look over his shoulder. He wondered what was up with this preoccupation with the ages of his lovers. “They weren’t all old. And I don’t mind age. I appreciate men of intellect.” He stretched to grab a tin of smoked oysters. That might be nice for Tony’s protein. He showed it to Tony. “Do you like these?”

“We’re having olives and oysters? Maybe I should cook again.”

“I’m making a salad.” He didn’t wait for Tony to complain. “It’ll be good. You’ll like it.” Without looking around, he set the oysters atop Tony’s bounty. He found a jar of artichoke hearts and held onto it. He sighed. “You wouldn’t understand. I’ve never been— With these guys, I don’t know. It’s like I’m a rock star or something. They’re so excited to take me out and show me off to their friends.” He smiled around at Tony. “That’s how you must feel all the time. Like everyone’s prize.”

But Tony, arms full, didn’t return the smile. “If you liked the way that felt so much, why did you settle down with Stew?”

“Seth.”

“Whatever.”

Bruce frowned at the shelves of food. “I don’t know. It got boring, I guess. Endless parlor tricks for their friends.” He pulled down a can of lentils. “And I’m not you, you know. It started feeling weird being someone’s trophy. I started feeling restless. And shallow. Empty.” He searched the shelves, waiting for Tony to make fun of him. Minutes passed. He turned to face Tony.

“That’s because you have a giant vagina.” But it sound forced, obligatory. The eyes above that too cool facial hair and lovely cheekbones looked rather sad.

Bruce wanted to hug Tony, but their arms were full. He led them out of the pantry. They spread everything out on one of the countertops. Bruce rinsed the colander of salad greens in the sink. “It sucks when people are too impressed by your image—with what they think they know about you—to bother actually getting to know you.”

Tony, arranging the cans and jars into a sort of pyramid, sighed. Bruce dried the greens and started to say something else when Tony said, “I’d sell my left nut for a Hundred Thousand Dollar Bar right now.”

Bruce looked at him and patted the greens dry slowly. “That’s…the kind with the crispy rice and…caramel?”

“Yeah,” said Tony, a touch too softly, “and it sort of gropes after you when you bite it.”

“Like lonely chocolate-covered caramel fingers.”

Tony lifted an eyebrow at Bruce. “Junk food cravings are part of nicotine withdrawal too, huh?”

“Yes.” He turned his back to Tony and continued preparing the salad. “I wish you hadn’t mentioned chocolate.”

“We could get some at the bottom of the hill.”

Bruce knew Tony meant the little store that sold gas at the final twist of the road that wound down the mountain. “We shouldn’t.”

“But we could.” Tony banged a cabinet with his leg.

Bruce couldn’t say anything.

“Fuck! Really? Now I can’t even have a fucking candy bar when I want one?”

“It isn’t wise to give into our cravings but—”

“Fucking wow, Bruce! Fucking wow. Every goddamned place I’ve been to had vending machines somewhere. And don’t tell me THAT’S why those places failed.” He swiped a can from the bottom of his pyramid. Cans and jars rolled around the counter. “Fucking mouth candy has nothing to do with fucking nose candy—”

Bruce saved a jar from falling to the floor. “We can have candy. We should be eating well, but a little junk food won’t hurt.”

“Okay, then. Let’s go. We can eat whatever-the-fuck that shit salad is later.”

Bruce continued to set jars and cans upright. “Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Or a few days from now.”

“You’re joking.” Tony scrutinized him for a second before throwing up his hands. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m okay to go to a fucking gas station. You’ll be with me. I’m not going to fuck up.”

“It’s not you. It’s me.” His embarrassment made his voice weak. “It’s the store.”

“What?”

“They sell cigarettes.”

Tony burst out laughing. He settled down after a few minutes. “Okay, okay.” He slapped a quick drum beat on several cabinet doors and marched out of the kitchen. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Motionless, Bruce watched him leave. “I’m serious,” he said when Tony reappeared looking confused.

“I’ll take care of you,” said Tony. He grinned slyly. “We need to take Delilah for a test run, don’t we?”

Bruce had to laugh at him. “I don’t know. That thing’s a monster now.”

“Yeah, you might need a helmet.”

“And maybe a diaper.” He smirked as Tony gave his chin a thoughtful rub, pretending to take the joke seriously. “Let’s go.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Dubcon ahoy! There's a scene in this chapter that I think seems worse than it is if you aren't thinking about the context and the characters' motives and desires. (So, please consider the context and the characters' motives.) Also, please note that both of our heroes are pretty confused in this story. And I didn't choose this title randomly, so a lot of the drama is right in the title.

Tony picked up a pack of little powdered doughnuts. Too bad that white shit was sugar.

The convenience store was dead. The dull white light from the long rectangular fixtures overhead made everything look off. At the register, the middle-aged clerk behind the counter flipped through a magazine. His head bopped to and fro as he mouthed the lyrics to the insipid Cheap Trick song playing over the bad speakers. _I Want You to Want Me._ Dork.

Tony smiled at himself in the circular mirror hanging from the wall. He and Bruce looked like they had been sleeping in their crappy clothes for a week. Neither of them had any product in their hair. Bruce’s shitty hair really needed product. Tony’s did too, honestly. He smoothed it back with his hand. Some time ago, he had traded his long headbanger mane for the sort of modern pompadour one of his girlfriends had convinced him would look good on him. It did, but so did everything. Even the faded Iron Maiden shirt and ripped jeans he wore now looked better because he was in them. That was the thing about being exceptionally attractive—there were no fashion gutter balls. It didn’t quite compensate for no one taking you seriously, but it didn’t hurt. Anyway, it was better than—

He smirked at Bruce in the mirror. Bruce was frowning at the candy isle as if it were a difficult equation. Tony thought Bruce looked sorta funny beside him. Bruce always looked sorta funny. His hair was pretty normal these days, by Bruce standards—just short and curly. No one would know how fucked up he was from his outer appearance. He looked like some really nice TA—the kind who would tutor complete morons as if they might actually understand the subject some day.

Bruce stooped over a box of little peanut butter cups and appeared to be studying them. He picked some up, selecting each one carefully. Too carefully. Way, way too carefully. Two thoughts struck Tony. The first was ‘Fuuuuuck. Jesus, nerd. Really? This shit’s going to take all night.’ The second was something…strange. It was a feeling similar to watching baby ducks play in a pond or a puppy trip over its oversized paws. It was a warm, ticklish sort of feeling. It was disturbing. Perhaps more so because watching ducklings and puppies never gave him a boner.

He caught Bruce’s arm. Bruce, startled from the very serious business of candy selection, blinked at him. Tony pointed to the closed circuit camera above the mirror. Bruce nodded. “They’re in all of these little stores now. It’s weird. I understand the need for safety, but no one’s even questioning how putting cameras everywhere might affect privacy rights. Don’t—”

Tony swung Bruce into a kiss for the camera. He thought he was giving whoever monitored the video feed a thrill. It was just an impulse. But, apparently, it gave Bruce a thrill too. Their lips connected with something like static. Tony gripped a handful of Bruce’s hair as he pressed his mouth against the other boy’s.

And then everything was still and warm…and racing like a flash flood. His tongue stroked Bruce’s—or was it the other way around? Bruce’s body pressed against his—so sure and firm, so insecure and needy

Tony pulled away, laughing, and pushed Bruce back. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Fuck, man. It’s just a joke.”

It took Bruce a second to catch his snap. A second with the excruciating slowness of being in a car accident. But, instead of coffee flying slow motion from a styrofoam cup, he saw something vulnerable dying in Bruce’s eyes. The sight sickened him.

Tony threw an uppercut at the camera. “That’s right, bitches. Gay pride. Suck it!” He swung an arm around Bruce’s neck and hauled him toward the register.

The ploy had worked. Bruce grinned at him. It had been a political statement. Pure theater. He hadn’t mocked Bruce. No one had. They were mocking the Establishment. The two of them. Together.

***

“I’m sorry about—that—back there,” Bruce told Tony as he drove them back up the mountain. “It took me by surprise. I know we don’t kiss.” Tony had created that rule years ago. Kissing on the lips, he believed, was too intimate.

Tony shrugged. “It’s okay.” His mouth was full of a chewy One Hundred Thousand Dollar Bar. He pointed to one of the dials above the steering wheel. “Watch those rpms. It keeps trying to creep too high.”

“Yeah.” The ensuing silence made Bruce uncomfortable. “We can play with creating that alternate power source tomorrow. If only we could create a nuclear explosion on a small enough scale—”

Tony stared out the passenger window. “I can get some plutonium from Stark Industries sent here if you want to fuck around with it.”

“Here? Is that safe?”

“Yeah. There’s a full lab buried behind the stable. We have safety equipment, everything.”

Bruce laughed. “I didn’t even realize you had a stable.”

“Stable, horses, all that shit. My parents were hung up on this being a real western getaway.” He wadded up his wrapper and threw it in the backseat. “There’s a photo hanging in the rec room of my dad and Ronald Reagan on horseback. They’re all dressed in cowboy shit like a couple of fa—” He shot a look at Bruce. “Fools.”

Flushed with affection, Bruce glanced at Tony, but Tony was staring out the side window. “Who takes care of the horses?”

“We have a caretaker. We provide him with a house near the vineyard.”

He always said things like that so matter-of-factly. Bruce smiled at him. Tony’s attention was somewhere outside the car, somewhere far away. Bruce focused on driving. He tried to relax and pretend nothing was strange between them.

He knew, if there was anything strange, it was his fault. Some things weren’t possible. He knew that. He had learned, at an early age, that wanting doesn’t mean getting.

But there had been an instant, one small sweet instant, where he had thought Tony was serious—and everything in his life had fallen to the side until all he could feel were those lips against his, that tongue in his mouth, and every cell in his body realigning itself to some new universal truth.

***

They brought their stash to the rec room and stored their beer in the refrigerator there. Beer hadn’t been part of Bruce’s original plan for Tony’s drug rehab, but Tony insisted that drinking didn’t make him want to do coke. Although he sometimes drank while snorting (Tony had never shot coke—something Bruce hoped would make his recovery easier), he used alcohol the way some cocaine addicts used benzos—to soften the ride down.

They played pool until Tony accused Bruce of cheating. Then they played the various vintage pinball machines Tony’s father had collected. One side of the rec room housed the makings of a small arcade with games Tony had played as a kid.

Bruce, peering over Tony’s shoulder, choked on a peanut butter cup as Tony yelled, “Shortcut!” and purposely swerved his pixel racecar into the grass, throwing up poorly-rendered turf. Tony grinned as Bruce laughed and fought for breath. “Who’s the baddest badass, huh?”

“This is great,” Bruce said once he was able to swallow. “I feel like I’m nine again. Except I’m not alone and my dad’s not beating the shit out of me.” He frowned at the floor. “Actually, I hated being a kid, so—” He grinned at Tony. “This is a thousand times better.”

As Bruce took his turn, Tony, eating a candy bar, leaned against his arm. “You're lucky, huh? You’re whole life’s pretty good now, by comparison.”

“True. I even have a boyfriend.”

Tony grunted, mouth full of candy. “Where’d you meet Stew, anyway?"

Bruce ground his jaw. “Seth.” He frowned at Tony. “You’re doing this on purpose now.”

“Don’t crash—awww.” Tony tugged caramel out of his candy bar with his teeth and chewed it like a cow. “That sucks, dude.”

Bruce pushed him off as his car appeared at the starting line. “Fucker.” He remembered the question. “At a rally. We’re both in EDEN—Environmental Destruction Ends Now.” He steered his car around the curves. “When he walked toward me, I didn’t think he meant to talk to me. I mean, he didn’t know me. He had no reason to talk to me. But there he was—this tall, attractive blond. Everything I could want and nice on top of that. He’s perfect, really.” But he felt like he was in marketing suddenly—trying to sell this to Tony, trying to sell it to himself. “We have a lot of common interests. We have fun together—we go mountain biking and backpacking—he loves camping.”

“You like that stuff?”

Bruce bit his tongue. He had suggested camping in various wild locations to Tony on several occasions. “Yeah. I love nature.”

“I knew that. I just thought you liked acting superior and trying to guilt-trip people. I didn’t realize you actually liked getting out in it.”

“I like trying to save it, and I like enjoying it.” He couldn’t help himself and snickered. “Feel superior and guilt-trip people? Fuck, man.”

“Okay, I guess he sounds perfect. Except he’s old.”

Bruce withheld a sigh. He couldn’t decide whether Tony was a selective listener or had a goldfish memory. “He’s thirty-one. That isn’t old. He’s stable.”

“Stables are for horses. Life should be balls out fun. Screw stable.”

Bruce almost wrecked his car. “Seth’s good for me. He’s a good person. And he really likes me.”

“You better step on the gas. You’re running out of time.”

Bruce narrowly avoided taking out the fence. “He’s better than I deserve.”

“He’s the One?” said Tony, casually skeptical, sipping beer.

“I can’t believe I ever said that.” Bruce crashed. Loser music played. “Kids are stupid. There’s no such thing.” He backed away from the game, unable to resist the wave of melancholy that washed over him. “If love exists, it’s for other people.” He glanced around for a clock. “Isn’t _Twin Peaks_ on tonight? Let’s go upstairs and watch TV. I need to rot my brain.”

***

“Why don’t you come sit up here?” Tony didn’t like that Bruce was on the floor. Not only was the jerkwad blocking part of the TV, the sugar binge had made Tony’s stomach hurt a little. He wanted to snuggle. Even if Bruce didn’t rub him, the closeness and warmth would be nice.

“I’m okay here.”

Fuuuuck. Fine. Tony left the comfort of the sectional and sat on the floor next to Bruce and his rat’s nest of blankets. Bruce gave him a strange look. It was almost pissy. And then he sort of whimpered. That was weird. “You okay?”

Bruce’s shoulders softened. “Yeah.”

“What was with the bitch face?”

“Did I make a face?” He looked genuinely confused. “Sorry. I’m feeling strange. I guess I need a cigarette.” He lay back with a sigh.

Tony watched him. “You have a stomach ache?”

Bruce put his hands behind his head. “No. Physically, I feel okay. It’s—”

Tony threw a fist into Bruce’s stomach. He didn’t use his full strength, but Bruce wasn’t expecting it. It must have hurt. Bruce curled up. His face turned scarlet, then blanched. But then he bit his lip and seemed to struggle with something besides the pain. Tony watched him with mild interest. “Now you do.”

“Dick,” Bruce gasped after a few seconds, still curled up and cradling his stomach. “You fucking, rancid cunt.”

“Remember, you owe me. I should give you a few more, you rapey fuck.”

“I…I thought we moved past that. It was a misunderstanding….”

Tony snorted. He had totally moved past it, but he felt strangely hostile. It felt good to see Bruce suffer. It wasn’t just funny—it felt really, really good.

Bruce stared at him with glassy eyes. “I didn’t realize you were still dealing with that.” He straightened out, with effort, then removed the hands clutching his stomach and tucked them behind his head. “Okay,” he said softly.

Tony melted. The weird tension inside him broke like a fever. He lifted Bruce’s shirt and brushed his lips over Bruce’s bellybutton.

Bruce’s stomach shivered slightly. “What are you—” His breath caught as Tony rubbed his cock. He was hard instantly. “Tony—” The name was a plea.

Tony pushed Bruce’s underwear down and was face-deep in cock in less than two seconds. He had Bruce moaning and writhing in only a little more time than that. He looked over to watch Bruce’s face. He shouldn’t have liked it. He shouldn’t have thought he looked kind of cute like that.

Bruce tasted and smelled cleaner than some of the girls he’d been with. Butt pirate. Tony thought he tasted pretty damn good. What did that make him?

Could you be gay for one person? Was that possible? Maybe something was wrong with Bruce. Maybe he had ovaries or something. That happened sometimes. He’d have to ask him later.

In the mean time, he fondled Bruce’s balls (he still shaved them—maybe Stew liked that) and sucked his thick cock. He glided his fingers up Bruce’s pleasure trail and ruffled the hairs on his stomach. Benji was a fucking furball. But his hair was soft; it felt nice. What the fuck?

Tony had fucked a Bulgarian gymnast who’d been pretty hairy. He had enjoyed her fur too. Maybe this was like that. Maybe it wasn’t that weird.

Accidentally, he raked his teeth over Bruce’s glans. Bruce must have fucking liked it. He breathed Tony’s name. Tony had been hard for some time, but hearing his name hissed like that made his cock weep a tear of precum.

On an impulse born of curiosity and something he couldn’t place, Tony moved to Bruce’s head and kissed his mouth. With a sweep of tongue, he parted Bruce’s lips and snaked his tongue along their inner edges. Tony grinned inwardly. Bruce’s silly mouth tasted like peanut butter and chocolate. Tony thought his must taste like chocolate too.

Bruce pushed him away. “Don’t.”

Tony jacked Bruce’s precum-sticky cock and muffled his protest with yearning mouth. Bruce almost squirmed free. Tony pressed him down. He left off Bruce’s cock to straddle his chest. Grabbing fistfuls of soft brown hair, he held Bruce’s head to the floor. “Stop,” Bruce breathed before Tony’s kiss silenced him.

Eyes shut, Tony kissed Bruce softly, slowly. Each gentle sweep of tongue was a small, quiet seduction. His heart thudded against his chest. Tony could think of nothing but longing. He knew Bruce wanted this—why was he fighting it?

The next instant, Bruce’s tongue explored Tony’s mouth with strong, passionate strokes. He kissed much like he rimmed—totally committed. Tony relaxed, stroking Bruce’s hair rather than gripping it. They were both so hard—slowing things down like this was the sweetest torture. His body felt like a frantic guitar solo. Slow, he reminded himself. Savor. Savor. He swiveled his hips in agonized bliss as Bruce sucked his tongue from his mouth with raw desire.

And then Tony felt something wet against the index finger of his right hand. He pulled away in confusion. Another tear streaked into Bruce’s hair. Tony frowned at Bruce’s face. Bruce tilted his head away slightly. A tear leaked over the bridge of his nose. “Please,” he whispered. “Stop.”

“I don’t understand.”

Bruce blinked at him in dismay. “Yes, you do.”

Tony frowned, perplexed. An answer fell on him like a blow. “Your father! I didn’t forget that. I swear! I didn’t make the connection. That’s all.” He slid off Bruce to hold him and gathered him in his arms. “And I even hit you. Fucking fuck.” He didn’t know how to say he was sorry, so he held Bruce as tightly as possible instead.

“Tony, no. No—it’s not that.” Bruce kissed Tony’s head and squeezed him back. “Aww, Tony,” he said gently, “you can be sweet sometimes.”

Tony buried his face against Bruce’s neck. “If that’s not what it was, what is it?”

“Nothing.” Bruce stroked his hair. “My private burden.” He kissed Tony’s head again. “I’m sorry I bothered you with it.”

Tony grasped at straws. He could do almost anything with a machine, but people so often made little sense. He loved Bruce, but the guy’s feelings were nearly as complicated as a woman’s. Maybe he _did_ have ovaries. Now was probably not the time to ask him.

Tony pulled back to look Bruce in the face. “Is this about smoking?”

Bruce stared at him for a heartbeat. “Yes. It’s about smoking.” His gaze darted past Tony’s left ear. “You know how people like to have a cigarette after sex.”

“We can have a beer,” Tony offered, pleased with himself for the suggestion.

Bruce caressed his jaw, smiling a rueful smile. “As if it weren’t difficult enough before.”

“What about a beer and a Valium?”

“Okay.” Bruce began kissing his way down Tony’s body. “No lips. You don’t like kissing me on the mouth.”

Tony grabbed Bruce’s ankles and pulled his feet toward him. “It’s not as bad since you stopped using that cheap-ass shaving cream.”

“I use an unscented kind now.” Bruce sounded amused. “But you shouldn’t kiss me. It’s gay,” he said as Tony sucked up a big mouthful of glans.


	6. Chapter 6

Bruce kissed Tony’s inner thigh as he tugged slowly on Tony’s cock. Everything about this was wrong. Aside from the obvious fact that he was cheating on Seth, there was also the small matter of his own heart. He didn’t want a pity fuck or a good time. He wanted Tony to love him. He wanted it to be real. Not pretend. Not—whatever the fuck this was.

He held his breath for a second, basking in the warmth of his friend’s mouth, the slippery strokes of tongue teasing the sensitive valley on the underside of his tip. He noticed Tony wasn’t following—he was exploring, improvising. That thought alone brought Bruce close to orgasm.

In his mind, he gathered his heap of misgivings and guilt in his arms. He found Hulk sulking in their tree house. _Present!_ He threw the bundle at Hulk.

Hulk caught it loosely, dirty sheets sliding over his arms. He looked at Bruce with nothing short of disgust.

Before he could say anything, Bruce told him, _I know, I know—weak, stupid whatever. Don’t care right now. Have a nice day!_

As if in retaliation, a twinge of pain caused Bruce to clutch his stomach. He sat up, wincing. Tony followed him. “What’s wrong?”

The alarm on Tony’s face moved him. He took Tony’s head between his hands and kissed the tip of his nose to reassure him. “Just a spasm—an aftershock.”

Tony’s fingertips, slightly calloused from his mechanical endeavors, glided delicately down Bruce’s stomach. His eyes were as soft as Bruce had ever seen them. An apology, skittish and ephemeral, lurked beneath their depths.

Bruce clasped the back of Tony’s neck and pulled his head against his own. “I’m okay,” he whispered. “Let me show you I’m okay.”

They stayed there for a second, forehead to forehead, naked. Tony’s chocolate-scented breaths steamed against Bruce’s lips. Bruce brushed a kiss beneath Tony’s lower lip. He kept a hand behind Tony’s head, grasping the nape of his neck, and blazed a trail of soft kisses down Tony’s bared throat to his muscular chest. He paused to feather the tip of his tongue against Tony’s right nipple. Tony’s eyes closed. A small, deep moan rattled in Tony’s chest.

Bruce’s cock pulsed in reply. He sucked Tony’s nipple, then sucked it harder. He pulled the areola deep into his mouth and sucked even harder. Bruce glanced up at Tony’s face. His expression suggested pain, but his soft, breathy moans betrayed ecstasy.

Bruce released the nipple and admired his work. Instead of a little pink nugget, it was a bright purplish bulb atop a little red hill. He knew all of it had become insanely sensitive. He teased it with his tongue and teeth, pulling faint whimpers from his friend. He stretched his jaws and took as much of Tony’s bulging pec in his mouth as he could, tonguing the sweetly swollen nipple with fast strokes while gently gnawing the mound of muscle around it.

He kissed his way over to the left nipple. As he pulled that one deep into his mouth, he felt a hand behind his head. He braced himself, expecting Tony to pull him off or shove him forward. Instead, Tony’s fingers sifted through his hair. Bruce played with Tony’s elongating nipple, twisting it gently between his front teeth and flicking it with his tongue. He chewed Tony’s pec while massaging its brother with deep, firm pressure.

Tony’s soft ‘ungh’ vibrated through Bruce’s body like an orgasm. He made a similar sound himself as he shoved Tony down on the pile of sheets. He held himself over Tony for a moment. Tony smirked up at him.

Bruce covered Tony’s eyes with his hand. “Relax,” he ordered.

Tony grunt-giggled. “Okaaay.”

Bruce paused to skate a hand across Tony’s gorgeous abs before rolling him over on his stomach. He licked down Tony’s spine, letting it lead him to Tony’s hot hole. He shoved his nose into Tony’s crack, enjoying his warm musk, and licked his clean, puckered rim. He fondled Tony’s sack. Tony’s sack was heavy; Bruce thought his cumbersome balls must have been achy. His sack smelled and tasted so good—like cum and salt and laundry detergent.

Tony groaned slightly as Bruce slowly rubbed his balls. The sound pleased Bruce. He kissed Tony’s hole and probed it lovingly. The hot, moist skin inside tasted slightly sweet compared to the light saline of the outer rim. He licked in long, full strokes, as if he were eating an ice cream cone.

Tony giggled a little. “You really love eating my ass, huh?”

Bruce pulled his head up and stroked Tony’s ass cheek with the tip of his nose. “I love—” He barely caught himself. “A lot of things.” He gave Tony’s cheek a sharp nip. “Don’t distract me. I take my ass munching seriously.”

Tony seemed to be getting ready to say something, but it turned into something like, “You-ew-ew-ohhh,” as Bruce inserted a finger into Tony’s hole while licking down his perineum.

Bruce fingered Tony gently, licking and kissing, sucking and licking. He cradled Tony’s balls as if they were precious objects and rolled them around his sack with the greatest care. Then he pushed his finger a little deeper as he wrapped a hand over Tony’s glans. He let his fingers slip behind the frilled head and tugged gently. Simultaneously, he pushed his finger deeper and massaged the tight, muscular sphincter.

He gave Tony’s glans a firm squeeze, then rubbed his inner thigh, guiding him over onto his back. He held still for a moment, enjoying the sight of the beautiful man sprawled out before him. He slipped another finger inside and kissed Tony’s inner thigh, sliding his tongue into a groove outlining a quad.

He rode his tongue up to Tony’s pelvis—Tony’s heavy cock menacing him along the way. Bruce lipped and chewed Tony’s shaft. With one finger, he massaged Tony’s prostate. With the other, he stretched and teased Tony’s hole while his thumb rubbed Tony’s sensitive perineum. Tony made a small noise. Bruce bore down on Tony’s prostate and kneaded his perineum. Tony moaned languorously, flexing his hips off the floor and leaking precum.

Gratified, Bruce sipped the sweet nectar. He took Tony’s cock into his mouth and gulped it deep in meaty mouthfuls. Tony grabbed fistfuls of blankets and writhed on the floor, groaning. Bruce gobbled Tony’s cock and played the _William Tell Overture_ on his prostate, his thumb spanking an accompaniment on Tony’s taint.

“Oh-fucking-god-fuck!” Tony cried as he came, spewing cum down Bruce’s throat. He continued to come in throes of passion, grunting soft ‘fuck’s with each volley of cum. Bruce drank it all, giving Tony’s cock a few hickey-hard sucks to ensure he had wrung out every last delicious drop of love-cream. When he was certain Tony was done, he pulled his fingers free and knelt low to give Tony’s hole a few parting licks.

“Fuck,” Tony breathed. “Fuck. That was just what I needed.”

“Good.” Somewhere in Bruce’s head, Hulk dumped a basket of dirty sheets on top of him. A blue feeling descended on Bruce like a silk veil. Not only did he feel sad and a little sexually frustrated, but some quiet, sickening shame spread throughout his body. He slithered to the side, grabbed the remote, and started skipping through channels. Tony sat up rather slowly, but didn’t say anything. Bruce ignored him. He wanted to find something they could watch together. He brightened. “ _Quantum Leap_! Have you ever seen this show? It’s kind of fun.”

Tony stared at him wordlessly.

Bruce risked eye contact. “I know you like to snuggle afterward. So do I. I thought we could watch TV while we cuddle. That way, we don’t have to talk.” He glanced at the screen. “Is this okay?”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be okay.” Lie. Lie. Lie.

Tony sat with one leg up. He rubbed his chin and jaw, his eyes on the television. “Okay, but we’ll watch TV in the master bedroom.”

Bruce withheld a sigh. He hated sleeping in the master bedroom. Not only did it feel disrespectful toward Tony’s parents, the room itself was oppressive. “But there’s a TV here, and it’s already on.”

Tony stretched to snag the remote. He clicked the television off. He grabbed Bruce’s neck and nuzzled his temple. “Come on.” His voice was low and unexpectedly gentle. “You’ll be more comfortable in that bed.” He held the side of his face against Bruce’s.

Bruce closed his eyes as Tony’s fingers roughly caressed his ear. “Okay.”

He didn’t need help up, but Tony insisted on helping him. He also didn’t need help walking to the bedroom, but Tony practically carried him. Tony tucked him in bed, turned on the television, and snuggled next to him. He wrapped around Bruce and kissed his forehead.

Bruce enjoyed the way Tony’s whiskers rubbed against his skin. He closed his eyes, partly because he enjoyed Tony’s attentions, partly because his stomach and balls ached, and partly because he didn’t want to have to look at the gaudy room with its tall pink leather-upholstered headboard, all of the ugly gold-splashed paintings, and the polar bear rug. The polar bear rug was absolutely nauseating. It hadn’t been bad enough for someone to slay a bear—they had dyed its fur a dusty pink and painted its claws gold.

Bruce didn’t remember dozing off, but when Tony woke him, he realized that Tony had been gone. He sat up as Tony handed him a club glass half full of tawny liquid. “Scotch,” said Tony. “I thought that might help more than beer. I wasn’t sure where you kept your valium, so I brought this.” He gave Bruce an amber pill bottle.

The label bore Tony’s mother’s name and identified the pills as the painkiller percocet. “What’s this for?”

Tony glanced at him from the corners of his eyes and slid into bed. “You were sort of moaning in your sleep.”

“I’m fine,” Bruce assured him, but he took a pill and knocked it back with the scotch anyway.

“I can spoon you?” He added when Bruce didn’t answer immediately, “I won’t hurt you. I’ll be careful.”

Bruce lay down and scooted against Tony. He enjoyed the way Tony folded around him, the weight of Tony’s arm atop his, the warm bursts of Tony’s breath against the back of his neck, the intermittent tickle of Tony’s facial hair. But Tony’s contrition bothered him. Tony roughhoused with him all of the time, often hurt him, and never seemed to feel guilty about it. This, apparently, had been different.

“You meant to hurt me.”

When he replied, Tony’s voice was soft. “Sort of.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just…I felt like it.”

Bruce stared at the dark and tried to decide if their relationship had suddenly taken a strange, dangerous turn. “If you feel like it again, tell me. Okay?”

“Yeah.” He seemed about to say more, but didn’t.

Schrödinger’s cat, Bruce thought sleepily. Sometimes, their relationship reminded him of that thought experiment. The cat, trapped in the box with poison, could be considered alive or dead as long as the box remained closed. It was both possibilities at once. Mentally, Bruce pushed the cat back in the box. He tried to explain. “As long as you’re in the box, you’re not dead. Shhh. Stay in your box.”

“I don’t think that was as profound as you thought it would be.” Tony’s lips against his neck. A soft, masculine rumble. “You do love haiku, don’t you?”

Bruce couldn’t keep his eyes open. Sleep had crept in while he blinked and made its home there.

“I love you,” said Tony’s voice from far away. “I don’t want to, but I do.”

Bruce felt as if his body had joined the mattress; they were the same being. He wasn’t sure if he had dreamed part of what Tony had said or all of it. “I love you,” he whispered. “Always have, always will.” But he wasn’t sure if that had been a dream too.

***

Tony yawned and ran a hand through his hair. He pressed the button on the intercom by the door of the master bedroom. “ _Got no religion, don’t need no friends._ ” He waited for the reply.

Finally, it came—but without the energy Tony had expected. Bruce’s voice, sounding sort of distracted, supplied the next verse from Black Sabbath’s _Supernaut_. “ _Got all I want and don’t need to pretend._ ” And that was it.

“Hey, jackoff. This is the part where you tell me where you are.”

Seconds passed. “I don’t know, exactly. It looks like an office. I was trying to find some fax paper, but this room doesn’t have any office equipment or supplies. Just expensive-looking decorative things and framed photos.”

Tony sighed, then depressed the button. “That’s the media room.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t see any TVs or anything.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “I’ll come get you.”

***

Tony found the stupid genius exactly where he thought he would. “See, I was right.”

Bruce, because he was a rude dick, didn’t even turn away from the wall of photos. “I suppose so,” he said, studying the photos as if he were at an art exhibit.

Tony answered the question he thought Bruce should have asked. “This is called the media room because it’s where my dad speaks to the media when he’s in this house. Each of our houses has a room similar to this. Big desk, masculine decorations, photos of war machines and mom and me.”

Bruce didn’t say a damn thing in response. Tony wondered if he was jealous or, perhaps, contemptuous. All of the photos of Tony and his parents had been taken at exotic locales. The family looked like the epitome of capitalist royalty. Impeccably dressed, not a hair out of place, big smiles. No black eyes, no disheveled drunks. He wondered if Bruce secretly harbored some resentment toward him. Maybe he thought Tony was a spoiled jerk.

Or maybe he wished he had been the boy in those photos. Maybe that’s why he was so mesmerized by them. On display throughout the room was the life Bruce or any else would have wanted. They were pictures of a life Tony hadn’t even lived. Tony braced himself for jealousy or admiration.

But then, Bruce turned to Tony. “You were such a sad little boy,” he said, close to tears. “I never realized until I saw these just how—” He shook his head.

Other people had seen these and similar photographs. No one had ever said that before. “How can you tell?”

“You have the exact same smile in each one. It’s practiced, not genuine.” He stroked a frame on the side where five-year-old Tony, dressed to compliment his mother’s scarf and dad’s tie, smiled on cue. “It’s like a little mask. It’s heartbreaking. And they’re all posed and so—plastic. The way they hold you—like you’re a can of soda in a commercial. They used you as if you were a prop.”

Tony agreed with every word, but hearing Bruce voice his feelings upset him. He moved aside an elephant carved from ivory mounted on an elephant foot and picked a picture off the desk. Bruce, suddenly animated, pointed at it as if he were a tour guide. “That one—ugh—that’s my favorite. Smug asshole with his trophies—sailfish and son.”

“At least the sailfish didn’t disappoint him.”

“Oh, Tony,” Bruce sighed in a voice of pure compassion.

And then he was in Bruce’s arms getting Bruce’s brucieness all over him. Bruce was holding him, rubbing his back. Bruce’s arms around him felt solid and strong. When did Bruce get so strong? And…sexy?

Tony didn’t know why he was turned on, but he was. He breathed into Bruce’s ear. Bruce brushed against him, sending butterflies through his stomach. He kissed the side of Bruce’s face, next to his eye. I love you, he thought. But he couldn’t say it. He wasn’t sure exactly how he meant it, and he knew the ‘how’ would be important to Bruce. Scientists couldn’t help asking questions.


	7. Chapter 7

Bruce rubbed Tony’s back and held him tighter. He felt so sorry for the little boy in those pictures. He felt sorry for the man in his arms. He wished he could take away his pain. He wished Tony had never known pain at all.

He felt so close to Tony, so attuned to his suffering. They shared a bond of childhood sorrow; they shared a wealth of grief. And Bruce loved him, loved him with his entire heart.

“Do you have ovaries?”

Tony’s voice, a little hoarse with lust, near his ear.

Bruce held still for a moment. “Did you just ask me if I have ovaries?”

“Yeah. Do you? Like, secret somewhere?”

Bruce put a few feet of distance between them. “No."

“Are you sure? Have you ever been tested?”

“What the fuck, Tony?” He could only breathe the words. “Yeah, I’ve been to numerous hospitals and had shitloads of x-rays and scans throughout my life. I’m a normal guy.”

Tony stared into his eyes. The seriousness of those eyes tore through Bruce’s heart like lasers. Tony swallowed. “What about…pheromones? Maybe you're emitting—”

Bruce put on a smile as fake as the one worn by little Tony in the photos staring at them from around the room. “No. I’m perfectly healthy. Perfectly normal. So are you. We’re both really stressed right now. And we love each other. Like brothers. We have—” He had to swallow the lump in his throat. “This really close relationship, and we have all of these daddy issues and pain…. It gets confusing.” He paused, hoping Tony would interject something. Tony only stared at him with those intense dark eyes. Bruce continued. “We’ve turned to each other for comfort for years—physical comfort. It’s not surprising that, under extreme stress, we might seek a different kind of comfort, a sensual one.”

Tony said nothing for almost a full minute. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “So, this is sort of like prison.”

“Yes. Like prison with capers, saltwater pools, and a stable.”

Tony nodded, scratching his chin. “Okay.” He sighed, obviously relieved.

Bruce felt dizzy. He wanted to turn away because he was afraid he might cry, but he couldn’t stop looking at Tony’s face. The cat was dead. There was no use putting the cat back in the box with the poison.

_Goddamnit! Weak, stupid Bruce! Why’s a dead cat in here?_

_Fuck off, Hulk,_ Bruce told him weakly.

The phone rang. It was eleven-thirty. Seth. He called at the same time every day. “It’s—”

“—Seth.” Tony smiled. He pointed to the phone on the desk. “You can take it in here.”

Bruce stared at Tony. The phone continued to ring. Seconds dragged by. Bruce picked up the phone. “Hello…. Good morning to you, also…. Yes, I’m well. What have you been doing this morning?” He held the phone to his ear, barely listening as Seth’s voice warbled past him. He watched Tony, who hung on the doorframe.

Tony drummed his fingers against the paneling. “Tell old Stew I said ‘hi.’ I’ll be out in the Yard.” He winked and flashed a brief smile. “By the pools.”

Bruce watched Tony disappear. Seth continued to chat amiably in his ear. Bruce collapsed in the commanding leather-upholstered chair behind the heavy desk. The scale of everything was so huge. He had the feeling of a child playing at his dad’s office—pretending to be an adult, pretending to be the boss of his own life.

Seth wanted to know where he was on the project—if he had made any progress with the calculations or drawn up any designs yet. Bruce hunched over the desk and rested his head in his hand. “I don’t want to discuss that with you right now…. Not right now, okay?” He watched a small, dark circle spread on the ink blotter beneath his face.

***

_A few days later_

Hair still damp from his morning shower, Tony looked around for Bruce. He tapped the intercom. He decided to throw Benji a bone, then hesitated. _Join in the Chant_ usually gave his friend Nitzer Ebb mouth farts. If Bruce heard it or was reminded of it, periodically throughout the rest of the day he would suddenly spaz and yell _Muscle and hate!_ for no good reason. But Bruce had been kind of quiet the past few days. Stirring him up might be worth a few Nitzer Ebb farts. Tony decided to go through with it. “ _Guns, guns, guns, guns._ ”

Seconds later. “ _Fire, fire, fire!_ ” Bruce giggled. “I’m in the green room.”

Tony joined Bruce in the ‘green room.’ Instead of hiring an interior designer like usual, Tony’s mom had decorated each of the house’s nine bedrooms herself, in different color schemes. This translated, roughly, into ‘hey, look at all of the shit I can buy in color x’ thrown into a room. Bruce had decided to set up his computer in the room dominated by jungle leaf prints and frogs—ceramic frogs, wicker frogs, glass frogs. Tony thought it was gruesome. (He found most of the rooms his mom had decorated horrible. She used too much damn crap—when he had a place of his own, it would be decorated in a minimalist style.) Apparently, however, Bruce liked fucking green shit.

“Hey, Dorkus. You spanking the monkey?”

“No. Not at the moment.” Bruce glanced up from his computer. “Can you help me with something?”

Tony moved to look over Bruce’s shoulder. “What?”

“I’m trying to design the best rehabilitation program possible, tailored to your specific needs—”

Tony groaned. “Fuck, Bruce. I thought you had this all worked out. You’re flying by the seat of your gay-ass pants? With my fucking life? Really?”

“There are a lot of different theories out there. So many schools of thought…. I thought I knew where I was going when we started this, but—” He looked up at Tony. “Look at this, for instance. This flies in the face of nearly all of the modern ideas about addiction—not just the way we view addiction on the micro level, but on the macro level.”

Tony leaned over Bruce’s shoulder. “Rat Park? What are you getting into?”

“Remember that commercial with the rat in the cage, and he has two water bottles—one plain, the other, laced with cocaine?”

Tony winced slightly. “Yeah. It was based on a famous experiment. The rat drank from the cocaine bottle until it died. That’s classic addiction.”

“Or is it?” said Bruce, a touch too theatrically. “This guy, Professor Bruce Alexander, wondered about that experiment and performed one of his own. He researched what the perfect environment for a rat might look like and built it. A plentiful variety of food, places to hide and play, other rats—apparently rats like company—and he built this habitat and called it Rat Park.”

“All Bruces must be sorta batshit. That name needs to be retired.”

“It’s a nice name,” said Bruce. “For smart people. So, this professor puts a water bottle with cocaine in Rat Park. The rats don’t drink themselves to death. They try it, but they don’t become addicts.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“The rat, all alone in his cage with nothing but a bottle of water and some cocaine, was probably bored and miserable. Rats aren’t supposed to live like that. They need variety in their diet and environment; they need other rats. The rats in Rat Park had everything a happy, healthy rat needs. They didn’t need a drug to soothe them.”

Tony smirked. Bruce thought he was onto something. That was kind of cute. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a rat in a cage with nothing but two bottles. I’m Tony Stark, heir to billions with a master’s in engineering from MIT at only twenty years old—oh—and I’m also hotter than fuck and drowning in pussy.”

“True. But your sexual relationships tend to be brief and shallow. Your parents only notice you when you screw up in front of their guests, and your closest friend lives across the country so you only see each other face to face maybe three times a year.” He stared up at Tony with soulful, dog-brown eyes and laid a hand atop Tony’s fingers.

Tony pulled away. “Fuck you and fuck this.”

“I’m not trying to belittle you.” He reached for Tony earnestly, grabbing one of his hands. “You have holes in your heart. That’s all I’m saying. I do too.”

“You’re saying I’m a sad rat?"

“We both are.”

Tony sat down and put an arm around Bruce’s shoulders. He leaned against Bruce’s stupid head. “I don’t know.”

“I like this idea. It kicks the legs out from under the theory that recovery is all about will power, so it’s not as simple as ‘just say no.’ Addiction isn’t a moral failing. And it isn’t something that happens as a result of being exposed to ‘evil’ substances that hold you in their power.” He sat up a little straighter, excited. “It means this whole ‘war on drugs’ crap is ridiculous. Instead, we should have a war on disenfranchisement. A war on loneliness. A war on human misery.”

Tony sighed. “I don’t know. It’s hard to sell SWAT gear and paramilitary equipment to fight a war on human misery.”

Bruce snorted. He brought up some graphs. “There’s so much information. Do you think—” he turned to Tony, “maybe you could help me with it? You’re better at crunching these things down and—” He was making his most winsome expression. Obviously, he thought he was being clever—stroking Tony’s ego to get him involved.

Tony crossed his arms, trying to hide his amusement. He decided to be quiet and enjoy the show.

Bruce verbally flailed about. “I would like your help on all of it, really. Not just for another pair of eyes, but because you’re profoundly intelligent…and…I need you. Your help, that is. Of course.”

Tony didn’t say anything.

“This concept is worth exploring,” said Bruce, forceful suddenly. “This is the last time you’ll detox. You’re not going to relapse.”

His resolute expression raised Tony’s brows. “Because you won’t let me?”

“Because you won’t let yourself.”

Tony had to turn away. He couldn't take Bruce's earnestness.

“Tony—”

Tony waved him off. “Save it. Don’t, okay?”

Bruce rustled in his chair, but stayed quiet. Tony glanced around at him. He was sort of slumped over his keyboard, his head in his hands. Tony sighed.

He sat next to his bummed butt pirate buddy. “I see what you’re doing, cumbreath.” He smiled. “You want me to do your work for you.”

“Of course,” said Bruce, a little playfully. “That’s how it’s supposed to be. I have all of the brilliant ideas, and you do all of the work.”

Tony grabbed the back of Bruce’s chair and practically dumped him out of it. “I’m driving.” Bruce grinned at him and began bouncing around the room. Tony read the lines of green text and pretended to ignore him.

“ _MUSCLE AND HATE!_ ”

It was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Bruce Alexander's Rat Park experiment was real. For more information on this and new theories of drug addiction, check out Johann Harri's book: "Chasing the Scream: The First and Last Days of the War on Drugs." I have to confess, I haven't read it yet, but it's on my 'must read soon' list.


	8. Chapter 8

Tony swung into his saddle. He had decided that they should do something outside besides veg around the pools. Since Bruce had seemed curious about the stable, Tony decided they would ride around the grounds and then explore the fire trails. He might have preferred doing this with an ATV or dirt bike, but he thought Bruce would think riding horses was more ‘natural.’ He turned his horse around to see if Bruce was ready yet. Bruce was still talking to his horse. Fuck. “Bruce! You’re not negotiating peace in the Middle East. Get on your fucking horse!”

Bruce looked up at Tony. “I’m just trying to reassure him that, although I’m getting on his back, I accept his autonomy and am not trying to rob him of his agency.”

There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in that voice. Sometimes Tony wondered if Bruce was secretly trying to make his head explode. “Dude. He has no nuts and his name’s Prince Pac-Man. Get on the goddamned horse already.”

Bruce climbed up on his horse. Tony heaved a sigh, waiting. “Any fucking day now.”

Bruce mouthed ‘wow’ as the horse floated over to Tony’s. Tony grinned. “Yeah, he’s a paso fino. Their gaits are kind of awesome.” He amended in case Bruce didn’t know anything about horses (which he suspected was the case given the fact that the idiot had spent nearly half an hour talking to the hayburner as if it were a human.) “Gaits are a horse’s different speeds. You can think of them like gears. Walking is first gear; trotting is second; cantering is third; galloping is fourth. Paso’s have a unique gait that’s really smooth.”

Tony looked at Bruce suddenly. “And it’s inborn—it’s not caused by their hooves being cut strangely or because they’re wearing weighted shoes. It’s natural.”

Bruce looked over the side to watch his horse’s legs. “It sort of looks like he’s mincing.” He frowned up at Tony. “What did you say yours was named?”

“Hellfire.” He patted the andalusian’s thick neck.

“So, you stuck me on a mincing gelding named Prince Pac-Man, and you’re riding a big red stallion named Hellfire.”

“Before you get your undies twisted any tighter, Hellfire’s a mare. Stallions don’t usually ride well with other horses. Most of them are kind of dicks.” His anger built as he continued. “And that horse you’re on is fourteen years old. I’ve had him since he was born. He’s gentle and well-mannered—I knew he wouldn’t hurt you. And I thought you’d appreciate how smooth he is—he won’t bounce you around. But somehow _I’m_ the asshole.”

“He does feel really smooth,” Bruce said in a small voice.

“You know, you really suck sometimes. You think you’re all nice and shit, but you can be a serious dickwad. Pac-Man’s a great fucking horse. I stuck your ass on a great fucking horse—but all you can do is whine and look for some reason to get your fucking feelings hurt.”

They rode in silence for a while. Then Bruce said, “I’m sorry. He’s a beautiful horse. I love his gold coat and black mane and tail. And he does seem very gentle.”

“He’s fucking smart too.” Tony couldn’t help snapping. “He’s my favorite horse.” He hadn’t ridden him in years, but Pac-Man _was_ still his favorite.

“Thank you for letting me ride him.”

“Whatever.”

“It’s funny, you know, I never really thought of you with horses.” Bruce had a smile in his voice. “They aren’t mechanized.”

Tony’s anger had never quite settled. Now it flared anew. “So, you know one little thing about me—that I like machines—and you think you know me?”

“That’s not—”

“I also like skiing and snowboarding. Those don’t involve machines either.”

“I didn’t know that,” Bruce said quietly.

“If you pulled your head out of your ass once in a while, you might learn something.”

A vulture circled lazily in the cloudless sky overhead. After a few minutes, Bruce tried to apologize again. “I’m sorry if I’ve said something to make you feel like I don’t see you—”

“You _should_ be sorry.”

“Do you feel like others don’t see you—the real you?”

Tony snorted. “All the fucking time. Everyone assumes so much. They don’t even try to get to know me.”

Everything was quiet except for the creaking of the horses’ leather tack, the breathing of the horses themselves, and the soft thuds of hooves on dry ground. Bruce glanced over at Tony. “How does that make you feel?”

Tony looked at Bruce askance. “An immeasurable intelligence, huh?”

“I’m not a mind reader. I’m trying not to assume—”

“Like shit, okay? It makes me feel like shit. And invisible. And like…like I don’t really matter.”

Bruce leaned forward to pat his horse’s neck. “What do you mean—you don’t matter?"

Tony shrugged. “If everyone’s so dismissive—then it’s like there’s this big piece of me that isn’t there. Like when I’m with my parents—I’m not me. I’m this—the sum of all of my failings. They only see my mistakes. It’s fucked up.”

“You’ve had a number of successes. They should acknowledge those.”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you think they don’t?"

Tony frowned at Bruce. “I don’t know.”

“Does it benefit them in some way to see you as their ‘wayward son?’”

“I don’t know….”

Bruce cocked his head to one side. “That’s worth examining, don’t you think?”

Tony didn’t say anything. A breeze blew through the chaparral and fluttered through the ends of the horses’ manes. Tony wondered if the vulture was following them. “Maybe if I’m bad, then it means they can’t save me?”

“Maybe,” said Bruce. “Maybe it means that nothing’s their fault.”

Tony frowned over at him. “Meaning?”

Bruce smiled at him faintly. “If you’re hurt and acting out and you’re simply a bad seed or a spoiled child, that absolves them of guilt. Your problems couldn’t possibly have anything do to with their emotional neglect, with their distance, with using you as a prop to be taken off a shelf for photo shoots instead of spending time with you and nurturing you the way good parents should.”

Tony stared ahead, but nodded. “Maybe….” After a few minutes, he cleared his throat. “Stark Industries recently acquired a meteorite with a unique composition. I’m having it sent here so we can test its properties. If it’s what I’m hoping it is, we might be able to create a new energy source to test with Delilah.”

“Yeah?” Bruce celebrated with an abbreviated version of one of the spasms he seemed to believe was dancing and a loud, “ _Muscle and hate!_ ” Happily, Prince Pac-Man was an old horse who had been raised with Tony firing rockets off his back. He didn’t spook easily.

Tony shook his head. “Fucking dork.” He had never loved anyone more.

***

_February 11, 1990_

About a week into Operation Rehab, Bruce’s boyfriend had asked for the address, ostensibly, to send Bruce some research materials. Tony had given consent. The daily mail brought more than research materials, however. Bruce received something practically every day. A ‘just thinking of you’ card, a ‘wish you were here’ card, a post card, a letter. Even Bruce thought it was revolting and winced a little when he saw them. And the dude called like every fucking day.

Tony flipped through the mail and handed two envelopes to Bruce as they walked up the hill from the mailbox. The gravel crunched under their shoes. “Stew has fucking Bruce-itis.”

“Seth,” said Bruce with a long suffering sigh.

“Seth.” That was even a worse name than Stew. Tony femmed it up and said in a lisping voice, “I’m Sssseth, and I have Bruth-I-tith. Tith-tith-tith.”

“That’s not funny,” Bruce giggled.

“Yeah, I forgot. It needs to be an old voice, doesn’t it? You’re playing Mr. Smithers to his Mr. Burns.”

“He’s thirty-one—the same age he was the last time I told you that. And he’s in great shape.”

“He’s creepy,” said Tony. “He’s like a stalker or something.”

“He’s very…” Bruce seemed to search of the right word, “demonstrative.”

Tony paused as they clumped up the wooden steps. “His cum tastes like mothballs, doesn’t it?”

Bruce admonished him with an eyebrow arch and foreword head tilt. Very serious. “Stop it.”

“Fine. Be that way.” Tony pretended to be extremely interested in the rest of the mail as he opened the door. They had barely made it inside when Sir Naphthalene himself rang for his morning Bruce fix.

This morning, Tony hung outside the green room where Bruce always took his calls. Not so much because he was worried about Bruce, but because the current talk show was a makeover for fat teen sluts, and those were pretty boring.

“Soon,” said Bruce, sounding dick-whipped. A long pause. “Yes. Yes. I will.” After an even longer pause, he said, “It’s important to me too. I’m as committed—” He sighed. “I’m not reconsidering, just considering…. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.” He took a sharp breath. “Don’t talk to me about omelets.” The tension ebbed from his voice. “Don’t...don’t…I’m sorry.”

Tony didn’t need to see Bruce to know his head was in his hand.

Bruce sighed. “I know. Me too.” Another long pause. “Yeah. I’ll think about it…. Okay. Have a nice—um—uh—see you soon.”

Tony met Bruce in the hallway. “Hey, I was just coming to get you. Fat sluts are getting makeovers.”

Bruce looked at him as if he had never seen him before and nodded. His face was drawn and tinged with gray. “Great,” he said without evincing any emotion at all. Tony herded him into the den and pointed him to the promised slut makeover show. Tony made extra fun of the participants and their horrible mothers. Finally, Bruce eased up and laughed with him.

They flipped around channels and discovered that anti-apartheid activist Nelson Mandela had been freed from prison after serving twenty-seven years. The man had been in prison longer than either of them had been alive.

Tony felt a quiet thrill. Only that past November, the Berlin wall had fallen. Now, it looked as if apartheid were ending in South Africa. The world was changing all around them. Things that had seemed so concrete, so immovable, were suddenly fluid, suddenly shifting. Tony grinned at Bruce, who seemed to be marveling at the news.

“He’s such a great man,” said Bruce in a hushed voice. “Indomitable.”

As they watched, one commentator pointed out that, although Mandela had started out as a pacifist and had now renewed his conviction for peaceful change, in the 1960's he had turned to sabotage as a means to fight the oppressive polices of apartheid in South Africa. Tony scoffed. “He says that as if it’s scandalous or surprising. Sabotage is almost the only means a small army has to fight a larger force.”

“Sometimes you have to crack a few eggs,” Bruce said dolefully.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Many thanks to KlaatuDuLak for being my bolognium consultant.

Bruce lay in the dark, spooning Tony. He stroked Tony’s bare stomach and gently kissed his shoulder. Tony had been muttering in his sleep again, but now, after an hour of affectionate attention, he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

After giving Tony’s neck a few more kisses, Bruce sighed and lay on his back. He wished he could sleep. His chest ached and his stomach was sour. His mind kept racing. He wished Seth would stop pressuring him about the bomb. He had never said for certain that he would do it—he had admitted that the idea wasn’t without merit—but he had never stated definitively that he would do it.

When one of EDEN’s members had suggested sabotaging some vehicles at the nearby strip mine, Bruce had been the voice of opposition. Their group engaged only in peaceful actions. But then Seth joined up, a man so beautiful he could have walked out of one of Bruce’s dreams. And he spoke about the Earth so passionately, with such conviction. It was hard not to at least consider his views.

And he was so hot in bed. He would let Bruce do almost anything to him. He had no limits. And he adored Bruce, adored him almost freakishly.

Seth’s words stalked him as he tried to sleep. He could almost hear Seth’s steady, deep voice. “We’re in a war, fighting for the survival of our species—fighting to keep our planet inhabitable. Our enemies have vast resources. They have governments in their pockets. And we’re fighting them with poster board and markers. It’s a war, Bruce. Do you honestly expect us to win like this?”

Bruce turned over, pressing his back against Tony’s, and tried to shut it out. Seth’s voice chased him. “You have the ability to arm us. You can strike a blow that will cripple our enemies. You can make them take us seriously.”

“At what cost?” Bruce asked the dark, whispering. “Bombs are not surgical instruments. If anyone were to get hurt….” _I wouldn’t be able to live with myself._

“You could do nothing when your mother was murdered—” Seth knew about the murder, knew Bruce’s father was criminally insane, but he didn’t know much about the abuse, physical or otherwise. Only Tony knew about the sexual abuse. And no one knew about Hulk. “—you could do nothing to save your mother then, but you can save our planetary mother now. Are you really going to do nothing while she’s raped and tortured? You’re going to hand out fliers and petitions as she dies?”

Bruce felt sick enough to vomit. Beside him, Tony muttered, “No, Lizard…Lizard. No.”

Bruce wrapped around him and nuzzled behind his ear. “Shhh. You’re okay,” he whispered. “Everything’s okay.” He shut his eyes as Tony quieted and wished he believed his own words.

***

“It’s a new element.” Bruce looked up from the custom-programmed chromatograph, one of the many instruments in the lab behind the stables. He wore a bigger grin than he had in days. “Tony, we’ve discovered a new element!”

“Not only that,” said Tony, “but according to my tests—”

“It’s the heaviest stable element ever found.”

Tony raised an eyebrow at him. “Right it—"

“Creates energy without decaying!!!” He looked a little unsteady.

Tony kicked a stool to him. “Too bad it only exists in this meteorite. If we had enough of it, we could probably solve the world’s energy problems.”

Bruce frowned at nothing in particular. “Maybe we could replicate it.”

Tony shrugged. “Maybe. Wouldn’t that be great if all of the world’s energy needs were solved by Starkium?”

Bruce, who had been lost in thought, blinked at him. “What about Bannerstarkium?”

“Barkium.”

“Bonyim.”

“Bronium.”

“Bronium!” Bruce bounced off his stool.

“Fuck yeah, Bronium!” Tony held up a hand. “High five, bro!”

But Bruce hugged him because Bruce was one mushy sonofabitch. Tony peeled Bruce off of him. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, dude. We’ll send some to CERN and Livermore to get credit for discovering a new element, then run some experiments with Delilah.”

“Bronium,” Bruce whispered, tickled. “It’s like we had a baby together.”

“Uh, no. No, it’s not.” Tony shook his head. “It’s like we discovered an element together.”

***

Tony and Bruce, covered in dust, returned from experimenting with Delilah at the salt flats to discover two dozen red roses and a parcel outside the front entrance. Tony had forgotten the date until he saw the roses. He smiled at Bruce. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Benji.”

“Yeah, you too.” Bruce sighed.

They brought the flowers and package inside and sorted it out in the kitchen. Tony let Bruce fuck with the crap while he got a soda. “It’s Stew isn’t it?” Like he had to ask.

Bruce moaned. “There’s a little card. He says he loves me.”

“Awwww.”

“We don’t use the ‘l’ word,” said Bruce. “We’ve only been together a few months. It’s not time.”

Tony shrugged.

Bruce frowned at the roses. “Jesus fuck me.” He sighed with such disgust that Tony spit-laughed all over the kitchen counter.

“Those were my thoughts exactly.”

Bruce wiped up the soda spray and set the box of truffles in front of Tony. “Do you like these?”

Tony shrugged. “This brand’s expensive. So are roses. This dude’s really into you.” He opened the box and freed one of the candies. “What’d you get him?"

“Uh….” Bruce pinched between his eyes and sort of hid his face. “I…um…sent him a gift certificate to Borders Books. For ten dollars.”

Tony almost choked on his white chocolate almond liqueur truffle. “You SUCK!” He almost couldn’t stop laughing. He pointed at Bruce and barely managed, “Worst. Boyfriend. Ever.”

Bruce wasn’t joining in the fun. He picked the dark chocolate ribbon off a truffle as if he were defusing a bomb. He looked nearly as sick and uncomfortable as he had the first day he quit smoking.

Tony cleared his throat. “Stop sulking. I’ll help you get him something good. You can act like that gift certificate was just a ‘miss you’ present or a joke or something.”

“That isn’t necessary.” Bruce stared sadly at the truffles. “I don’t know what he was thinking. I don’t like cut flowers. And, I don’t know, this seems extravagant.”

“Sucks to be Stew.”

“Seth,” said Bruce.

Tony stretched against the barstool’s leather back and rested the back of his head in his hands. “Poor bastard. He probably didn’t realize he could have just donated twenty bucks to some environmental group and gotten you a pack of cheap-ass peanut butter cups.”

Bruce looked at him strangely, as if contemplating their new radioactive element. “Yeah,” he said in a soft voice. “That would have been perfect.”

***

Tony wanted to show Bruce something he had taped on the VCR in the den, so Bruce followed him. Tony brought the truffles with them and set the box between them on the sectional. “This is even better with weed. You’ll be okay if I get the bong?”

Bruce smiled a little. Since Bruce liked smoking a cigarette after smoking a joint, they had been cooking with weed rather than smoking it. “I’ll be okay.”

Tony went to find the bong. Bruce picked a white chocolate leaf off a truffle. What the fuck was he going to do with Seth?

“You’re going to love this,” said Tony, holding in smoke. Apparently, the long trip down the hall had necessitated a bong rip. He handed the bong and lighter to Bruce, sat, and picked up the remote.

A cartoon began to play. (Tony liked cartoons.) It didn’t really have any dialogue. Instead, it had a catchy song, _The Cat Came Back_ , which was also the title of the animated short film. It was about a hideous man who kept trying to get rid of a little yellow cat through all sorts of horrible machinations. No matter what the man did, however, the cat returned.

Later, as Bruce fell asleep with Tony wrapped around him, instead of Seth’s recriminations playing over and over in his head, he heard only the cat song and Tony’s soft snores. _But the cat came back the very next day./ The cat came back. They thought he was a goner/ But the cat came back. He just wouldn’t stay away._

“Now stay in your box,” he murmured sleepily.

***

Tony breathed. His breath blew out as darkness. He was a god. He was a man. He was a god. He lay on his back on a mattress on the floor of Liz’s loft. New York City. Summer. A beam of light from a huge window that shouldn’t have been there shot through the space as if from a giant’s flashlight. One of Liz’s mobiles, human-sized figures resembling metal fairies re-imagined as robots, caught the traveling light as they floated slowly overhead.

Coltrane ebbed from somewhere nearby. Lizzie loved everything old. Yet she was as new and fresh as the leather-tinged scent that escaped his Lamborghini like a blown kiss when he opened the door. She gazed down at him, her usually smirking face deathly serious. Her eyes—vibrant, green as grapes—held his in the sliver of light shining through the dark. Her long red dreads were still clipped back, but a few had sprung loose to lick her hips as she swiveled into him.

He moved with her, pushed deeper. She gave a soft wail and arched back. Her lithe neck, thrown to the side, created lines as artistic as any of her sculptures. He rubbed the smooth brown thighs, black in the shadows, fencing his torso. He came watching her come. He always came watching her. Her high little breasts, her long, slinky body, that caramel-tinted skin that made his father cough and his mother’s forehead wrinkle when he introduced her to them. No, she wasn’t one of _them_. She was alive.

She kept him inside her and bent over him, lowered herself with the grace of a lioness to his chest, and perched there, smiling into his face with the smugness of a canary-fed cat. He thought of her with her welding torch, resembling a ninety-eight pound astronaut as she turned metal into art; he rubbed a hand across a warm ass cheek. “The girl who plays with fire.”

She traced his cheekbone with a finger. Her smile fell away as she contemplated him. She whispered, “All _you_ do is play, Kettle.”  
Kettle. Short for T-kettle, her revenge for his calling her Lizard. Sometimes it became Ket or Kettle-cat. He loved when she said plain Kettle because she softened the last syllable with a slight Creole drawl so it seemed to melt on her tongue like a warm bit of praline.

He smirked at her. “What else would you have me do?”

“Always playing.” She kissed his chest. “It’s not a game, Ket. When you gonna get that, hmm?”

“It’s all a game.” Tony hadn’t wanted to say that, but he had said it anyway. He wanted to tell her he loved her. He tried again. “It’s all a game.” Fuck! “It’s all a game.” _No. No. I love you. I love you, Elizabeth Lavoie!_ A snap of static. “It’s all a game.”

She smiled, calm, resigned. A flash of lightning lit the room. In that flicker of light, he could see her skeleton through her skin. Her eyeless skull stared at him. “You always win.”

Tony watched in horror as another flash of light brought metal wings lifting from her back and raised needles along her forehead. She coughed up a razor onto his chest. It gleamed for an instant in the flickering light that had begun to strobe like a dance club. She smiled and coughed up more razors, this time with a copious amount of blood.


	10. Chapter 10

Tony gave another guttural scream as Bruce wrapped around him. A wild elbow caught Bruce in the sternum. He lost half his air, but he was so focused on Tony that the blow was almost painless; he didn’t even need to think about suppressing Hulk. Still, he couldn’t speak for a second and had to rely on the press of his body to calm and soothe. Breathless, wordless, he cradled Tony’s face against his and held him close. Tony quieted and shivered against him in the dark.

“I killed Lizard.” Tony’s hoarse voice fell as puffs of steam against Bruce’s neck. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I killed her.” A small, broken sound clawed its way up his throat. Tony heaved against Bruce and shook quietly.

Tears ached in Bruce’s eyes. He wished he had more arms with which to console Tony. As it was, he tried his best to surround and anchor him, to absorb the mute sobs tearing through his friend like slow motion earthquakes. “It’s okay,” he huffed softly, hugging Tony tight. “It’s okay.”

Finally, Tony sighed against him and was still. Bruce could feel the steely-eyed inventor’s tears dampening his shoulder. “I love you,” Bruce assured him, trying to infuse every bit of what he felt into that statement. “Whatever happened, I’m here to help you through it.”

Tony pushed his face into Bruce’s shoulder. “Lizard…”

Bruce smoothed down Tony’s thick dark hair, continuing to hold him. “Who was Lizard?”

“Liz Lavoie.” He swallowed. “She was an artist.”

“Oh, the cyborg artist—she did those metal posthumanity dystopian sculptures and mobiles?” He rubbed slowly up and down Tony’s spine. “I admired her work—the way she explored the dehumanizing aspects of industrialization while maintaining a natural aesthetic.”

“So I guess you fucked a couple of humanities professors too?” Tony cleared his throat and pulled away. Bruce maintained contact, resting his hands on Tony’s thighs. Wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands, Tony swallowed. “How did you know her?”

“I was at her gallery opening last April.” Bruce couldn’t help smiling a little. Sometimes being friends with Tony was like loving a brilliant goldfish. “With you. You invited me. And you introduced us.”

“Huh.” He shook his head.

“Why do you think you killed her?”

Bruce listened as Tony explained and held him when he broke down again. “It’s not your fault,” he assured his friend. “You didn’t force her to do anything. She had free will. You didn’t cause her to become an addict, and it’s not your fault she overdosed. It’s horrible and tragic, but it’s not your fault.”

Tony stared out the window. “I should have been there. I should have saved her.”

“You were weak and dealing with your own problems. You can’t blame yourself for that.” Bruce rubbed Tony’s shoulder. “You can’t save the world.”

Tony didn’t say anything, his gaze riveted to the window.

“Survivor’s guilt sucks,” Bruce said gently. “I’ve been there. I know. It’s a total mindfuck.” He massaged down Tony’s arm. “But you have to realize that you didn’t kill Liz. She overdosed. It happens. Sometimes terrible things happen and we can’t prevent them.” He knew how much it hurt; he knew it all too well.

“She loved me.” Tony’s voice was hollow. “I loved her, I think. When I was around her, anyway.”

In that instant, Bruce felt an almost dizzying sympathy for Liz. Loving Tony wasn’t an easy business. His heart bled for Tony, as well. Tony lived in the moment—and that moment burned brighter and hotter than most people’s imaginings. But the second he walked into a new day, the old one blew away like ash. The next great thing was always on the horizon, somewhere just ahead. This was the perfect mindset for an inventor, not so much for a serious relationship.

And yet…Tony wasn’t the one cheating on someone.

Bruce stroked Tony’s cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say, so he hugged him. Tony felt stiff in his arms. He massaged between Tony’s shoulder blades and up his neck. “It’s not your fault,” he whispered.

He withdrew gently and eased behind Tony. He kneaded Tony’s tight trapezius, following it from the back of his neck, through his broad shoulders, and down to his midspine. When Tony began to relax, Bruce held Tony’s shoulders, placing each index finger a few centimeters below the clavicle on either side.

“Take a deep breath.” He expected Tony to mock him. Instead, Tony did as instructed. “Again,” Bruce said softly. He maintained firm pressure on the points as Tony breathed. “And again.”

He relaxed his hold, then kneaded up the base of Tony’s neck and the back of his skull with one hand while rolling his shoulder gently with the other. “Breathe,” Bruce told him, inhaling with him. He released his breath with Tony, then he rolled the other shoulder. “Breathe.”

He smoothed his hands down Tony’s arms and massaged his wrists. He moved so they were facing each other. “Let go,” he told Tony softly, pulling his fists open and stretching his fingers back. “Slow breaths. Slow breaths.” He rubbed Tony’s palms with his thumbs.

They sat there for a while in the semi darkness of the room, Tony with his eyes closed, Bruce watching him. Gradually, Bruce noticed the bruises from his struggle with Tony beginning to throb. His limbs felt leaden. He lay back, gently tugging Tony down too. “Can I hold you while we fall asleep?”

In answer, Tony hugged him and snuggled close.

Tony was asleep in seconds. Bruce lay on his back cradling Tony’s head against his aching chest. “It’s not your fault,” he whispered, running his fingers through the inventor’s hair.

***

_A few days later_

Tony sat on the kitchen counter and flipped through the mail as if he gave a fuck about it. He tried to pretend not to watch Bruce forlornly unwrap the brown paper from Stew’s latest gift. When he saw what it was, however, he couldn’t help himself. “No fucking way! Tell me numbnuts didn’t make you a mix tape!”

Bruce glared at him. “No. It’s a relaxation tape. You’re supposed to play it while you’re falling asleep to help reduce anxiety and stress.” He frowned at the cassette tape. “I told him I left the last one he gave me at home, so he sent this.”

Tony swiped it and turned it over. It was plain black plastic with a yellow label that said _Relax_ with a smiley face, both in black marker. “It looks homemade.”

“Yeah. He has a friend who makes them.”

“Cool.” Tony slapped the tape against his leg. “Let’s listen to it tonight. Maybe it’ll help my nightmares.”

Bruce made a face. “I wouldn’t. If it’s anything like that last one, it’s the exact opposite of relaxing.”

“Yeah? What is it—like rain falling and monkeys chattering or something like that?”

“No, it’s just surf and a few bells on occasion, but it made me want to crawl out of my skin.” He actually shuddered a little and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his gray Caltech hoodie. “I left it at home on purpose.”

Tony tossed the tape at Bruce (it hit him in the forehead because the guy was as uncoordinated as fuck) and pulled his wallet from his jeans. He fished a photo out and unfolded it. He flipped it over to read the writing on the back. _Seth Adderly and me—Yosemite Falls._ He showed the photograph to Bruce. “This is Stalker Stew?”

“Yeah.” Bruce sank onto one of the benches on either side of the rustic table. He grinned. “You have a photo of me in your wallet?”

“Right.” Tony studied the creased photo. “In case my plane crashes in the mountains somewhere and I need toilet paper.”

Bruce snickered. He traced a circle around a knot on the table. “I keep one of you in my backpack.” He smiled. “In the smallest pocket along with one of my mom and my valium. It’s my ‘stay calm’ kit.”

“No photo of Stew, huh?”

Total bitch face. “We’ve only been together a few months.”

“No photo of Jen?”

“Not in the kit. There are no calm thoughts about Jen these days. She’s all—dating boys and—growing up.”

Tony couldn’t help grinning at his friend. “How dare she.” He added causally. “She’s kinda cute too.”

“Don’t even joke about that.” Bruce covered his eyes with a groan. “My little cousin.”

“So.” Tony slid onto the bench opposite Bruce. He set the photo on the table in front of his friend’s face, feeling like a police detective interviewing a suspect. “This guy’s not ugly. I’m not sure what guys find attractive, but I can tell he isn’t ugly.”

Bruce drew up a bit, wary. “No.”

Tony nodded, then leaned in on his elbows. “Is he smelly?”

Bruce seemed to be trying to pull off an affronted expression while suppressing laughter. “No. Why?”

Tony shrugged. “I don’t know. I was trying to figure out why he’s after you so much.”

Bruce became animated. “Wait. Just…hold on a sec. You, Tony Stark, my best friend—”

“Only friend.”

“I have other friends.”

“You have acquaintances and colleagues. I’m your only true friend.”

“Fine. Tony Stark, my one true friend, believes the only way someone would chase me is if he were ugly or smelly?”

Tony shrugged. “Yeah.”

Bruce laughed, but there was a woundedness to it. “You don’t even see how that might be hurtful, do you?”

Tony tore the photo along the crease and flicked the Stew bit at Bruce. “That’s yours. I don’t need him on my ass too.” He stuck the Bruce portion back in his wallet.

On his side of the table, Bruce held the picture of his boyfriend and studied it with such a troubled expression that Tony understood why Bruce’s ‘stay calm’ kit hadn’t included a photo of him. It wasn’t simply doubt; it was something deeper. Something dark.

Tony wasn’t sure what it was, but he didn’t like it.

***

_A few days later_

Bruce sat on the floor in the green room surrounded by frogs. He held the phone to his ear with his shoulder and played with a custom equation for the formation of the cosmos in a spiral notebook. “Yeah….” He frowned at his tablet and paused to drum his pen against it. Attractive, non-malodorous Seth was harping on the bomb again. Bruce heaved a breath. “Nexxon Global _does_ need to be held accountable for the catastrophic oil spill off—” He tapped the pen, annoyed. “That’s why I faxed the research for our new campaign to Jessica…. Yes, exactly—the one involving ‘ineffectual’ fliers and a ‘pathetic’ march. Thanks for being such a dick about it….”

He let Seth go off for a few minutes, then asked in a voice much calmer than he felt, “Is that the real reason you’re dating me?” On the other end, Seth sounded genuinely baffled. Bruce licked his lips. “Because your idea of a revolution requires someone with my expertise?” He relaxed a little as Seth reassured him. Seth’s voice became slow and gentle. Seth was probably right—his questions were born of low self-esteem. Bruce set the notebook aside and held the phone with both hands, breathing evenly. He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I miss you. Things here are kind of...stressful. I’m tired. Please don’t talk to me about that special project right now, okay? We’ll hash it out when I get back.” He couldn’t help sighing when Seth told him he loved him. “And I care about you too. We’ll talk about everything when I get back.”

He sat with the phone for a moment after Seth hung up. He felt terrible. Seth had some radical views, but he was a good guy. And for some bizarre reason, Seth seemed to love him. Bruce didn’t know why it was so hard to accept that, or why he couldn’t seem to admit that he and Tony could never—

“Dude, what’s he keep busting your balls over?” Fifty or so stuffed frogs became airborne as Tony crashed atop the mattress.

Bruce, sitting at the foot of the bed, leaned back against it. “Just something he wants me to do. You wouldn’t understand.”

A frog landed in Bruce’s lap. “Are you two going to adopt a yorkie together?”

“No.” Bruce’s mild irritation increased as another stuffed frog beaned him. He turned to confront Tony and caught a frog in the face.

“Ribbit.”

“Funny.”

“I thought so.”

Bruce bounded onto the bed, grabbing frogs and slinging them at Tony while trying to deflect a vicious frog pelting. When they ran out of frogs, they wrestled, creating a mess of the neat bed linens and carefully arranged pillows. They called a truce when Tony’s hair became caught in Bruce’s watch, and then they sprawled on the bed in a heaving tangle of intermittent giggles.

Tony, his head resting on Bruce’s stomach, turned his face to Bruce’s. “Hey, speaking of Nexxon Global—”

“Were you eavesdropping the entire time—”

“What if bronium made them irrelevant? Huh? That would be a cool thing to announce at one of your little marches, right?” Tony held his hand to his lips as if it were a pretend megaphone. “Guess what, hippie bitches? All of our evil oil overlords are going the way of the dodo!”

“That’s one extinction I wouldn’t mind.” Bruce smirked. He wondered then if he should have told Seth about their discovery. “Maybe I should tell Seth. I think he could use some good news.”

Tony turned serious. “Not yet. We’re not ready to go public yet. We need confirmation.” His gaze flitted away for a second. Then he said, “He wants you to come back, huh?”

“Yeah.” Bruce stroked Tony’s forehead with the backs of his fingers. “But he’ll have to wait. Bros before beaux.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, KlaatuDuLak, for beta-reading this chapter. (And for letting my new stuffed Hulk sleep in our bed.)
> 
> WARNING: Dubcon-ish bit in a scene. If you haven't been upset by the dubcon thus far, I don't think you'll be offended.

“I’m thinking it should have its own aqueduct system—something self-sustaining and constant so the little guy’s never without fresh water.” Bruce shifted his spiral notepad so Tony, looking over his shoulder, could inspect his scrawlings on the yellow paper.

Tony rubbed his chin. “What about a rain capturing system with underground filtration? It should be mechanized.”

“And with the smallest carbon footprint possible.” Bruce made eye contact suddenly with the three-legged coyote and smiled. “Don’t worry, Wile E. We’re not simply going to fix your pen, we’re going to—”

“Give you a fucking coyote paradise.” Tony took the spiral from Bruce and doodled a few quick plans.

When Bruce had arranged for them to volunteer at the wildlife sanctuary in the canyon, he wasn’t sure Tony would enjoy it. On the tour, he had surveyed the rescued animals with an expression of absolute boredom. However, when the volunteer coordinator put them in charge of repairing enclosures, Tony had come to life.

Bruce looked over Tony’s arm. He pointed. “What are those?”

“Solar panels. We’ll have to miniaturize them.”

“Should be easy enough. You’re putting in tiers?”

“Yeah. I’m trying to maximize his surface area by building up.” Tony glanced at the coyote. “They climb, right?”

“I don’t know. That one’s a tripod and his girlfriend’s blind. We should run this by Dr. Mandel, that zoologist at UC Davis.”

Tony nodded, his expression intense. “Coyote Park. That’s what this should be—fucking Coyote Park.”

A teenage girl walked up beside them. She had a short black bob, round, mirrored sunglasses and intensely red lipstick that matched the Twizzler in her hand. She wore a black bustier dress printed with daisies. She waved her Twizzler at Tony. “Are you the new volunteers?”

Tony smiled. “Do we look like the old volunteers?”

Bruce laughed—not because Tony was funny. “Yeah, we’re volunteers. Are you?”

Another girl, this one with shaggy butterscotch locks, answered. “No, we’re just hanging out.” She wore a Metallica tee shirt over a black pencil skirt. Around her neck were maybe a dozen necklaces of various lengths fashioned from numerous materials. Most had crosses, but some were just chains. “We’re friends with Jeff.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Bruce, suddenly understanding what the mallrats were doing there. “Jeff.” Jeff was the handyman, a scruffy guy with sun-bleached hair and a surfer tan who sold shitty, over-priced weed. Obviously, the girls were there to buy some stems.

“So, Twizzler and Butterscotch, you guys live around here?”

Both girls tittered. Twizzler slapped her candy at Tony like a little red whip. “My name’s Delaney. And this is Barley.”

Like something out of a wildlife documentary, the girls somehow separated them from each other, pairing off. While Delaney entertained Tony near the coyote enclosure, Barley cornered Bruce a few feet away. Barley gestured to Bruce’s Morrissey shirt. “You like him?”

“No. I only wear the shirts of artists I can’t stand. I think it makes me interesting.”

Barley stared at him rather vaguely, twisting an ankh necklace around her finger. “Oh. I thought some of the Smiths’ songs were okay….”

Bruce felt like a dick. “I was being sarcastic. I loved the Smiths—and Morrissey is some kind of god.” He nodded at her shirt. “Metallica’s great too. _One_ has to be one of the best songs of all time.”

Barley grinned. Bruce relaxed, and they talked about bands and music for a while. He couldn’t help periodically trying to see what Tony was doing. He seemed to be having a very animated conversation with Delaney, but Bruce couldn’t ascertain about what.

Barley cast a glance over her shoulder. “They seem to be hitting it off.” She turned a smile at Bruce. “Maybe we could all go out somewhere.”

“I don’t know.” Bruce watched Tony and Delaney over Barley’s head.

“We could go to my house. My parents are in Tahoe.”

“Huh.” Bruce thought they had been talking to these girls way too long. He kept hoping Tony would recognize that as well and stop. "We're kind of busy."

“We could fuck,” said Barley. “We could have an orgy.”

Bruce tried not to squirm. “I’m gay.”

Barley frowned at him. “Are you sure? You don’t seem gay.”

“I’m sure.” He swept a hand through his hair. “You know, that’s kind of offensive.”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

“That’s even more offensive.”

Barley laughed. “You’re funny.”

“No, I’m kinda nauseated.” More laughter. Tony wasn’t even facing him. He appeared to be deep in conversation. “How old are you guys?”

“Old enough.”

“Really.”

“Seventeen.”

“Both of you?”

“Delaney’ll be seventeen next month.”

“Tony!”

“Oh, fuck!” Barley, delighted, glanced behind her with a curled hand to her mouth. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“What? No.” He yelled at Tony over her head. “Tony! We need to go to the house and call Dr. Mandel.”

Bruce didn’t completely relax until they were on the road in Tony’s Jaguar. He sighed happily as Tony drove too fast up the mountain. Tony looked over at him. “Mr. T was into you, huh?”

Bruce smirked and played with imaginary chains on his chest. “Yeah, I guess. It sucks sometimes. I can be in a room full of hot guys and not one of them will give me the time of day, but there’s always some damaged girl trying to give me a back massage.”

Tony grinned. “I don’t mind doubling my pleasure. I can handle Yoko _and_ Mr. T.”

“Those girls are too young. Delaney’s only sixteen.”

“I’m twenty. That’s a smaller age difference than you and old Stew.”

Bruce sighed. “Seth.”

Tony laughed.

***

_A few days later_

Tony heard “SMASH!” and a loud crash from down the hallway. He flew to the green room and threw open the door. Bruce stood like Godzilla amid a computer hardware heap Tokyo. His fists clutched wires and circuit boards. He slammed a foot through the glass of the CRT.

“Bruce! What the fuck, man?”

Bruce rounded on him, flinging crap at his head. His wild eyes seemed to stare at Tony without seeing him. Rage contorted his face. He didn’t even look like Bruce. He pulled his bleeding foot out of the monitor and stomped it again.

“Are you frying?” Tony shoved him backward. “Chill the fuck out, you crazy asshole!”

Although he succeeded in getting Bruce to step free of the monitor, lights danced before his eyes as Bruce’s fist connected with his nose. Tony stepped back, guarding his nose with a bloody hand. He punched Bruce in the mouth, perversely enjoying the way Bruce’s teeth raked across his knuckles. Bruce fell back against the desk, but was up in Tony’s face the next second.

Tony lost air as Bruce’s fist slammed into his chest. He threw an uppercut into Bruce’s solar plexus. Bruce staggered, but the next instant he grabbed Tony in a vicious hug and smashed him back against the wall. Tony kneed Bruce in the groin and twisted free.

But Bruce didn’t fold up the way Tony had hoped. Instead, inexplicably, he only seemed angrier. Slavering, he threw a right-hook under Tony’s heart.

This was some bullshit. Tony decided it was time to put him in his place. He took a step back, preparing to let Bruce really have it, and stumbled over the broken monitor. Bruce fell on top of him, snarling like a rabid animal.

They crashed to the floor amid shards of putty-colored plastic, silver screws, and glass. Tony managed to scramble on top and punched Bruce twice in his batshit face. As they struggled, Tony’s cock ground against Bruce’s hip. And then it bumped against Bruce’s cock. They were both hard. Extremely hard.

Bruce’s hips lifted yearningly against Tony’s. His breath husked against the back of his throat. Tony rocked back and forth over the big, hard bulge in Bruce’s jeans. He managed to pin one of Bruce’s arms over his head. He rubbed a fist up and down Bruce’s taut stomach and slid the tip of his tongue along the inside of Bruce’s lower lip.

Bruce groaned and writhed against him. His eyes, no longer vacant, were huge with surprise. “That’s not fair,” he said in a small voice.

“You fucking commie,” Tony whispered, laughing. “Life’s not fair.”

“I’m really more of a socia—” Bruce gasped as Tony slid down and ground his teeth around his clothed cock.

Tony pulled off Bruce’s jeans with teeth and hands. He aimed his ass at Bruce, and Bruce teased Tony’s cock through his jeans for a minute before yanking them off. They pulled off each other’s underwear, sucking and groping and nipping.

Straddling Bruce backward, Tony pulled one of Bruce’s balls into his mouth. He rolled it around with his tongue, enjoying the humid puffs of Bruce’s breath against his ass. He closed his eyes in bliss as he felt Bruce’s mouth attack his hole. It was a fucking assault—almost as brutal as their battle. Muscular, probing tongue…the flat pressure of teeth…devouring lips—and the strange, exotic scrape of Bruce’s stubble against the sensitive skin of his ass cheeks.

He bit the inside of Bruce’s thigh and sucked it, hard. Bruce groaned. His cock knocked against the side of Tony’s head, leaking precum in his hair. Tony smirked and pulled the monster down. He licked up the shaft, enjoying the vibration of Bruce’s moans against his hole. He rested his chest against Bruce’s stomach, riding the exhilarated undulations of Bruce’s body.

He kneaded Bruce’s shaft as Bruce kneaded his. And then Tony closed his eyes and sucked air, unable to do anything for a moment other than exist. Bruce’s big lips caught on the edges of his glans and wobbled there, rocking back and forth, as warm wet tongue slithered through his slit with the muscular grace of a moray eel. Heat spread through Tony's body as a saliva-wet finger invaded his hole. He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe. He held Bruce’s cock against his face. It pulsed against his skin.

Stars shot through Tony’s body as Bruce’s hot finger massaged his prostate. Bruce’s cock twitched beside Tony’s face. Tony laughed weakly, drunk with pleasure. The idea that Bruce would be excited about Tony’s prostate was almost as funny as it was wonderful. He snuggled Bruce’s swollen cock and kissed the precum from its head. Benji was such a good boy.

Bruce paused to gnaw Tony’s perineum. Tony closed his eyes and moaned. Bruce had two fingers inside him now. One rubbed Tony’s prostate while the other tugged his hole. It felt too fucking good. He felt the head of his cock knock against the back of Bruce’s throat. He pushed it deeper. Bruce took it without missing a beat. Tony laughed while moaning.

Tony remembered Bruce suddenly. He cupped Bruce’s heavy balls and devoured his cock. He wasn’t exactly an expert at sucking dick, so he couldn’t take the whole thing in his mouth like fucking Deep Throat beneath him, but he made a brave effort. He sucked Bruce’s cock hard—as if he were trying to drain snake venom from a wound.

He rode Bruce’s face, thrusting slowly. Bruce’s fingers moved with him, diligently playing his ass. Tony pulled on Bruce’s cock and chewed his glans. He squeezed a handful of Bruce’s balls. He squeezed hard. He didn’t know how the damn things weren’t bruised after that racking he’d given them—

Bruce squirmed beneath him with a cock-strangled whimper. Tony felt kinda dickish. He gave Bruce’s poor balls a few gentle kissy-licks, then gobbled his glans while pressing a knuckle beneath his sack. He enjoyed Bruce’s deep, surprised moan as it vibrated around his cock.

Tony swirled his lips and tongue around Bruce’s glans, mimicking the maneuvers he felt Bruce doing to his. He knuckled down Bruce’s perineum and knocked roughly against Bruce’s hole. Bruce groaned deeply and swallowed around Tony’s cock. The action vibrated like a gong through Tony’s body. He came and came, his bones singing within his skin, his viscera dancing.

Bruce came as he did, gushing in his mouth. His cum was vaguely sweet, like one of his weird smoothies. Tony drank it. He drank all of it and gave Bruce’s cock a little congratulatory tongue swirl afterward. He kissed Bruce’s inner thigh and moved off him while Bruce was still tonguing his hole.

Bruce, lying in a jumble of hardware, stared up at him with tears in his eyes. Tony caressed his chest and down his stomach. “Don’t be a little bitch,” he said softly as a tear slid down his own face.

Bruce started laughing. He sat up and wrapped his arms around Tony, still laughing. Tony wiped away the debris sticking to Bruce’s back. Bruce squeezed him. His laughter turned to tears. Tony hugged him tighter and cried against his head.

Finally, they both grew quiet. They remained in each other’s arms. Tony massaged the back of Bruce’s head, enjoying the feel of his silken curls moving between his fingers. “He found you again, didn’t he?”

Bruce’s back stiffened slightly. “Yeah. I—” He tried to pull away, but Tony held him fast. Bruce relaxed into his embrace. “How did you know?”

Tony smiled and ruffled Bruce’s hair, his tear-damp face still pressed against Bruce’s. “You get weird when he contacts you. Remember last Labor Day? The frat boys? That’s how I found out I was your emergency contact.” He laughed a little when Bruce made a small shamed noise. “Yeah, thanks for that, by the way. Nothing like being wired out of your head and getting a call that your best friend’s in the hospital half a world away.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re a puny pacifist scientist, you’re not supposed to get in bar fights.”

“I still don’t remember exactly what happened, but I’m sure they had it coming. They were frat boys.”

Tony grinned. “They mopped the floor with you.” He brushed a tiny screw off Bruce’s shoulder. “I was kinda pissed at you, making me fly all the way out here—”

“I never meant for you—”

Tony held him tighter. “What’s the point of having a jet if I don’t take it out once in a while?” He caressed down Bruce’s spine. “I couldn’t figure out what the fuck had happened to you, but when I found that letter from your father in your backpack, it made sense.”

“That’s surprisingly Nancy Drew of you—searching my backpack for clues.”

“I was looking for weed.”

Bruce giggled, then sighed deeply and sank a little. “I love you,” he said very softly.

“So—” Tony gave Bruce’s neck a small kiss. “I’m guessing he emailed you?”

“Yes.” He swept a hand through the debris with a groan. “My computer. Fuck! I fucking hate—me.”

“We can fix it. It’ll be fun. Hell, it’ll be better. _Better than he was before. Better. Stronger. Faster._ ” Tony smiled when the _Million Dollar Man_ reference pulled a snicker from Bruce. He stretched to open the lower desk drawer and took out the bottle of scotch they had been keeping there. It was almost full. He took a long pull from the bottle, then held it to Bruce’s lips.

Bruce looked at him strangely for a moment, then drank as Tony tilted the bottle. Tony poured several shots down Bruce’s throat. As Tony took his turn, he wiped stray drops off Bruce’s mouth with his thumb. They drank back and forth.

Tony kept touching Bruce’s face. Bruce looked sleepy. He also looked unbelievably sweet. “You know,” Tony told him, “I don’t really think someone would have to have something wrong with them to want you. The truly weird thing is why everyone doesn’t want you.”

Bruce snickered behind his hand. “You’re drunk.”

“No, I’m serious.” Although, Tony was also drunk. “You’re super intelligent. You’re kind. You’ve got these sweet puppy eyes and sexy bee-stung lips—”

Bruce, trying to take a drink, began choking with laughter. “No,” he sputtered. “Not while I’m drinking.”

“Wait.” Tony held out an admonishing hand. “I’m not done.” He took a moment to remember what else he had wanted to say about Bruce. “You have nice soft hair—and lots of it. Like, everywhere—all over.”

Bruce covered his mouth. Scotch sprayed from behind his fingers.

“You’re kind of a messy houseguest, though.” He watched Bruce cough and shake with amusement. “I’m serious.” He waited to continue until Bruce’s eyes were on him again. “And you’re good. You probably think that’s lost on me, but it isn’t. The world’s full of phony fucking backstabbing asshole fuckwads—and you’re not one of them.” He took a long pull from the bottle. “You’re fucking good, Bruce.”

Bruce looked uncomfortable. He picked a broken piece of plastic out of the carpet and twiddled it around. His gaze stayed down.

A profound sadness washed over Tony. “You don’t believe that, do you? You don’t believe you’re good.”

“Tony….” Bruce didn’t look up. “There are things—”

“BULLSHIT!” Tony yanked Bruce’s chin up and forced him to look into his eyes. “I know _I’m_ good. My stupid fucking asshole father refuses to see it—but, goddamnit—I’m good! And you’re good! You’re fucking good and the fact that you can’t see that makes me want to hunt down your asshole sperm donor and kick his fucking teeth down his throat.”

For almost a minute, Bruce just stared at him. Tony leaned in to kiss the dumbfounded scientist, thought better of it, and released his chin. He sat back. Neither of them said anything. Tony took Bruce’s turn drinking, drank for himself, then passed the bottle to Bruce.

“You’re like a rainbow,” Bruce said, his voice quavering slightly.

“I’m what?”

“People look at you and see pretty colors or the possibility of a pot of gold. If they don’t look carefully, they’ll miss the Fraunhofer lines whose measurements reveal the elements in the Sun—elements that are the building blocks of our entire universe.” He paused to sniffle. “You’re not just something attractive—you’re the Sun and the moon and the stars.”

Tony grabbed the sides of Bruce’s head and looked deeply into his wide eyes. “That’s the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.” Bruce began to laugh. Tony shook Bruce’s head to make him stop. He rested his forehead against Bruce’s and sighed. Then he kissed Bruce between the eyes. “You’re a rainbow too.” He pulled Bruce’s head to his shoulder and kissed his ear.

Bruce kissed him back, and they just sat there for a while trading moist, subtle kisses—ears, eyebrows, noses, necks—anywhere but on the lips.

Being unable to kiss Bruce’s mouth made Tony want to touch it. He caressed Bruce’s lower lip with his thumb. Bruce’s tongue darted out to lick it. Tony poked his thumb between Bruce’s lips. Bruce swabbed it with his tongue, then sucked it gently. “Jesus fuck me with a fish,” Tony whispered. Bruce giggled. Tony sat back and drained what was left of the bottle. Bruce watched him drink.

They sat there for what felt like a long time, motionless, quiet.

Tony stood, Bruce following him. They dusted themselves free of computer parts. Tony gave Bruce’s ass a few cleansing swats. “Let’s go roast a bowl in the hot tub.”

But the swats had made Bruce hard. And seeing Bruce’s erection made Tony hard. It shouldn’t have, but it did. And then Bruce was all bedroom eyes and touching Tony’s face. Before he knew what happened, he was kissing the inside of Bruce’s wrist with Bruce’s chest bumping against his. Bruce’s cock thwacked against his thigh.

“I want to fuck you,” Bruce whispered, his lips brushing against Tony’s ear.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to KlaatuDuLak for beta-reading this chapter.
> 
> Note: So, the boys should be using condoms and practicing safe sex, but this is fiction....

Tony felt as if he were being pulled into some sweet abyss like a fly drowning in honey. Bruce nuzzled his neck. “I want to fuck you.”

Tony laughed. “Yeah, you keep stretching me.”

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” said Bruce, defensive.

“Yeah.” Tony wriggled slightly as Bruce’s fingers fanned down his sides.

Bruce leaned close to whisper in his ear. “It’ll feel even better if I fuck you.”

Tony giggled. “I still owe you for last time.”

“It won’t be like last time.” Bruce’s voice was thick with promises. His short, blunt nails grazed Tony’s stomach and trailed downward, raising chills over Tony’s skin.

Tony hesitated. Bruce massaged one of Tony’s ass cheeks, pulling it aside gently. Tony frowned. “We don’t have any lube.”

“We have olive oil.”

“That kind of stinks.”

Bruce blinked at him. “Really? I love the way it smells.”

“What about conditioner? Or suntan lotion?”

“It’s better to use something that can be taken internally. What about mayonnaise?”

Tony laughed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No. It’ll work.”

“You want to lick mayonnaise off of me, huh?”

Bruce shrugged. “I want to fuck it inside you. I prefer dijon mustard for licking. It tastes better on skin. We have some in the fridge if you’d like to try it.”

“Why the hell not?” He smacked Bruce on the ass. “You go get the lube, and I’ll pick the room.”

“Not the master bedroom.” Bruce gave him a pleading look.

“Not the master bedroom,” Tony agreed. “Now go. Call me on the intercom when you’re ready.”

***

Bruce took a breath. He had been playing _Deep_ sometimes while they fell asleep and thought Tony might know some of the words to the songs. He pressed the button on the intercom. “ _A strange kind of love._ ” The trip to the kitchen had sobered him a bit, and his courage had ebbed. He waited for the next line of _A Strange Kind of Love_ with a tightness in his chest.

“ _A strange kind of feeling,_ ” Tony’s voice sang from the speaker in a somewhat campy Peter Murphy impersonation. “I’m in the media room! Come ass-rape me on Dad’s desk!”

Bruce’s knees almost buckled. He gripped the kitchen counter for support, then depressed the intercom’s button. “Okay.” He was glad he had cut his foot earlier, because the pain as he walked proved he wasn’t dreaming.

Hulk pestered him on his way to the media room. _Bruce. Weak. Stupid._

Bruce ignored him. Hulk didn’t like being ignored. _Hulk smash weak, stupid Bruce! Smash! No fucking! No stupid Tony! Hulk smash! Hulk smash! HULK SMASH!!!_

 _Jesusfuckingchrist._ He let Hulk pull him into their head and met him beside a fountain at Caltech. _I want this. Stop fucking with me…. What are you doing with that box?_

Hulk gave the steel box he was holding a few quick shakes. The box hissed.

_That’s mine!_

Hulk shook his head and held the box out of Bruce’s reach. _Bruce too stupid for box. Too weak and stupid._

_Give me the fucking box NOW!_

Hulk continued to play ‘keep away’ with the box. _Hulk keep box. Maybe Hulk smash. Maybe not. Maybe smash later. Maybe Hulk eat box. Maybe—_

Bruce held a shar-pei puppy out to Hulk. _Look. I made you another puppy—one of those ugly wrinkled ones you liked the other day. Take the puppy and give me the box._

Hulk took the puppy. _Maybe Hulk take puppy and keep box._ The monster cradled the puppy to his chest and looked quite petulant.

_Maybe I’ll give myself some homemade electroshock therapy and get rid of you for good._

Hulk held his gaze for a minute before handing over the box with a sigh. _Weak, stupid Bruce._ He looked down at the puppy lovingly. _New friend for Pompom._ The puppy farted. Hulk smiled at Bruce. _Toot. His name’s Toot._.

_Oh my fucking god. Are we done here? Could I maybe get back to my life now?_

And then Bruce was in the hallway that led to the media room. His internal conversations with Hulk rarely lasted more than a few seconds in real time. The media room was only a few doors down, past the terrarium. Bruce stood in the hallway, clothed in gooseflesh, his hands full of condiments and his dick totally flaccid. “Thanks, Hulk,” he muttered as he stalked down the hall, “you cockblocking shithead.” Hulk, the cold, and fear had completely shattered the mood. What should have been the experience of a lifetime had been ruined, completely ruined.

He opened the door to the media room to apologize to Tony. Sweet pot smoke swung a sticky arm around his neck. Tony sat atop the desk like an Adonis at a museum. Framed photos, the burgundy phone, and the ink blotter lay on the floor. Tony wore a smirking grin and nothing else. His cock was a fucking steel rod.

Bruce’s stomach dropped as if he were on a rollercoaster at Magic Mountain. Blood rushed into his cock so powerfully that it pulled him forward, a step closer to Tony. Bruce couldn’t help himself. “You are utterly magnificent,” he breathed.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” Tony slid off the desk, staggered toward Bruce, and fell into his arms.

Bruce held him reverently. “This won’t be like last time. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.” He outlined Tony’s ear with a finger. “Any time you want to stop, we’ll stop. I would die before I hurt you. I would fucking die.”

Tony smirked. “Dude. It’s not a funeral. Lighten the fuck up, man.”

“What’s your safe word?”

“Coyote.”

Bruce could only hug Tony and smile at him for a moment. Then he grabbed Tony’s throat. “Since I’m Benji, you’re my little puppy boy, and I’m going to pound the shit out of your ass. I’m going to fuck you doggy style on your daddy’s desk—I’m going to fuck your brains out. And the next time you see Daddy War Profiteer sitting at this desk with Barbra Walters or whomever—your ass will ache with pleasure, and you’ll remember what we did here.”

“Dude.” Tony grinned.

Bruce wanted so, so badly to kiss his mouth. “I love you,” he breathed, still holding Tony by the throat and staring into his eyes. He started to tremble. He acted quickly to cover it, slinging Tony around and pushing him over the desk. He grabbed the jar of mayonnaise, twisted off the cap, and scooped up a big, quivering white glob of it. He slapped it on Tony’s puckered hole as if he were patching Hulk’s fist-holes in the drywall of his apartment.

Bruce reached between Tony’s legs and palmed his sack, rolling his balls gently while he inserted a finger into Tony’s gooey hole. Tony pushed his rectum outward. “Oooommm. It feels so hot.”

Swirling another finger into Tony’s hole, Bruce simultaneously squeezed down Tony’s big cock. When he reached its head, he squeezed harder and pushed knuckle-deep into Tony’s muscular sphincter. Bruce groped Tony’s thick glans. His fingers played in Tony’s ass. He flirted with Tony’s prostate, kissing it lightly with his fingertips and then retreating.

Tony pushed toward him, making a sweet, little frustrated noise. Bruce rewarded him with a long, deep rub. He tugged on Tony’s cock. Tony groaned and thrust his ass toward Bruce.

“I want to spank you.” He let go of Tony’s cock. It thumped against the front of the desk. He massaged Tony’s prostate and ran his free hand over Tony’s perfect rump. Bruce started to give Tony a swat, then hesitated, caressing Tony’s ass instead.

Tony looked over his shoulder. He was clutching the back of the desktop with both hands. “Yeah, spank me. Spank my ass.”

Bruce slapped Tony’s ass cheek. Tony laughed. “C’mon, Benji. Spank it hard. I’m a bad boy.”

“I’m spanking you because you’re a good boy.” Bruce smacked Tony’s ass harder and sank another finger into his hole.

“Wrong. I’m a bad boy. I’m letting my gaytard best friend fuck me over my dad’s desk.” He flipped off the nearest photo of his parents. “While they watch. While they smile and watch!”

Bruce smirked and gave Tony some hard smacks. He withdrew his fingers and globbed some more mayonnaise over Tony’s hole. He formed a wedge with his fingers and pushed it inside him. He let Tony’s hole adjust, then pushed his wedge deeper. He grazed Tony’s round ass with his free hand. “You okay?”

“I’m good.”

Bruce stroked the small of Tony’s back while fanning his fingers to widen the wedge. He massaged Tony’s perineum with his thumb as he worked. He wanted Tony fully stretched and ready. He wanted—

“Christ, Bruce. Are you gonna marry my hole? Fuck me already.”

Bruce snickered. He withdrew his fingers and lubed up his cock.

“Seriously, dude. I thought you were gonna take it to a movie and make it a mix tape.”

“I want you to feel good.” Bruce realized as he spoke that his tone was slightly pathetic. Fuck.

_Weak, stupid Bruce. Ha ha. Hulk laugh._

_Leave me alone!_

_Toot also laughs._

_Get the fuck out of here!_

“Dude. Quit being a little pussy scientist over thinking everything and fu—”

Bruce plowed into Tony’s hole, displaced mayonnaise swelling around his cock like snowdrifts. Tony gave a deep grunt as the thrust pushed him forward. Bruce rammed Tony hard and deep a few more times, taking long, slow thrusts. Each one pushed a short, low moan from Tony. Bruce rocked his hips slightly, enjoying the hard press of Tony’s smoldering rectum and the contrast of soft, cool tissue against his cock’s sensitive glans as he probed Tony’s depths.

He pressed on the small of Tony’s back, pushing the inventor’s stomach into the desk, as he sank root-deep into Tony’s hole. Errant whips of mayonnaise licked the neatly-trimmed hairs around his cock. Tony gasped. Bruce held still. Tony pushed his ass into Bruce’s pelvis.

Bruce flushed with delight. He picked up speed until he was drilling Tony at a break-neck pace. Tony had to dig his knees into the desk to keep from being pushed over it. Bruce pounded Tony hard and fast. Tony’s air snapped out of his throat in low ‘uffs.’ Bruce smacked his ass a few times, then reached down and pulled lovingly on Tony’s glans. He thudded into Tony’s body with a frenzied abundance of love. He hugged Tony’s cock with his hand, kneading, needing, loving.

He felt cum thundering up Tony’s shaft. “Oh, Tony,” Bruce whispered, pre-climax forcing everything within him into a tight coil. “Tony, Tony.”

“Booyah!” Tony cried and came and came and came. Bruce came also, trembling with ecstasy as the inner coil unfurled and he filled Tony up with all of his love.

Bruce slipped out of Tony, pulling a white wave of mayonnaise and frothing ejaculate with him. His legs shook with emotion. He sat on the desk in an effort to hide his unsteadiness. Tony’s name kept ringing in his head. He felt stupefied. He was so out of sorts that he almost didn’t realize when Tony sat up and sat beside him.

“Duuuude.”

Bruce blinked slowly, staring straight ahead. “Yeah….”

And then, suddenly, Tony turned Bruce’s face toward him and kissed ever so softly beneath Bruce’s mouth, his lips and whiskers stroking Bruce’s lower lip. Bruce woke as if from a centuries’ long sleep. His pulse thudded in his skull. Tony’s mouth hovered next to his. Tony’s breaths steamed against his lips. Tony placed a kiss beside his nose.

He stared at Bruce with a bewildered expression, touching his neck and jaw with feather-lightness. He wound a curl around his finger with a strange delicacy. Overcome, Bruce kissed Tony back, barely missing his mouth. He dusted a kiss over Tony’s eyebrow.

Tony planted a soft kiss on Bruce’s throat. Bruce flirted with Tony’s lips, almost brushing them with his, then rested them, like a hesitant butterfly, atop Tony’s nose. Tony kissed the crevice above Bruce’s clavicle. Bruce picked up Tony’s hand and kissed his fingers.

Tony outlined Bruce’s lips with a fingernail. Bruce tried to brave the ticklish sensation, but had to shudder finally. He licked his lips. Tony touched a callused fingerpad to the tip of Bruce’s tongue. Bruce caught Tony’s hand and pulled it to his mouth. Undone by all of the playfulness, he kissed Tony’s palm with deep, fervent thrusts of his tongue. He felt as if he were being zapped by tiny electrical volts all over his body. He could easily come again. He could easily come a hundred thousand times.

***

Tony tingled all over as Bruce kissed his palm. He felt so carefree, so happy, awash with afterglow and…. He realized suddenly that he was petting Bruce’s hair and staring into Bruce’s big puppydog eyes while Bruce kissed his palm—his fucking palm—and filled him with butterflies and honey. This was fucked up. This was so, so fucked up.

They were obeying their rule—not on the mouth. But love didn’t enter at the mouth. Everything they were doing—they were making love. This whole night had been a fucking lovefest. They might as well get a condo and have butt-babies or something. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck….

“Coyote.”

Bruce drew up as if he’d been slapped.


	13. Chapter 13

Bruce’s expression was so startled that Tony wanted to hug him. But he didn’t. Instead, he stood, picked the phone off the floor, and set it on the desk.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said. “I—didn’t mean—I guess that was weird. The palms are sensitive—I thought it would feel good—”

“It did, but everything kind of….” He couldn’t look at Bruce’s face. He picked the elephant off the floor and set it on the desk. “Dude, look at this, huh?” He managed a small laugh. “I have fucking mayonnaise all over me. I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Okay.” Bruce wasn’t getting it. He smiled at Tony coyly. “Would you like some help?”

“Nah, I think I know how to take a shower. I can handle it.”

“I think we recorded a new _Headbanger’s Ball_. You wanna watch it with carbs and water once you’re clean?”

Tony felt like he was in one of those movies where the kid’s trying to get the dog they love to go away. He threw another rock at Benji. “You can, if you want. I’m dead. Once I wash this shit off, I’m going to bed.”

Bruce smiled. “I feel more like snuggling too.”

Tony sighed. “Bruce, I need some space.”

“Um…okay. Sure.”

Rock. “I want to sleep alone tonight.”

Bruce didn’t say anything for a moment. “Are you having any cravings?”

“No. That’s not what this is about—”

“Stop.” Bruce smiled faintly. “It’s okay. I trust you. And you’re asking for what you need. That’s good. That’s great, really. And, fuck, this isn’t a conversation I want to have naked and covered in mayo with your parents staring at me.”

“Okay.” It wasn’t a conversation Tony wanted to have at all. “I’m taking the master suite. You can have any room you want.” He left, feeling a little sick, but maybe that was from all of the scotch.

***

Bruce lay alone in the blue room, which was filled with numerous silk floral arrangements, consisting mostly of lupine and irises, and darkness. He had opened one of the windows slightly to let fresh air into the stale room, but it let a slight chill in as well. The southern California night felt cooler than it should have. Coyotes cried somewhere in the distance. They sounded as forlorn as Bruce felt.

He pulled the blue velvet duvet around him and looked for Hulk inside his head. He wasn’t in the tree house Bruce had thoughtfully made Hulk-sized to accommodate his giant. He wasn’t in the olive grove or by the fountain at Caltech or at a hash bar in Amsterdam or at Yoda’s hut on Dagobah. After much searching, he found the monster in the vacant lot near the house where Bruce had lived as a little boy. It was dusk. Hulk was sitting in the grass, still and quiet.

Bruce sat down beside him in the overgrown grass. _Hey._

The monster grunted at him.

A firefly lifted slowly from the grass. Another blinked somewhere nearby. Suddenly, there were dozens. Lights flickered all around Bruce and his monster. Without meaning to, Bruce shifted into himself as he appeared when he was eight. He shivered slightly despite the evening’s warmth. Here, it was June 8, 1978. Always. _Why did you come here?_

Hulk didn’t reply.

Instead of the contacts his twenty-two-year-old self preferred, eight-year-old Bruce wore glasses. They were fucked up. He took them off. The frames were bent and crooked and the lenses were smudged. A grayish rim of salt from dried tears clung to the lower edges. Bruce tried to clean the lenses on his shirt. _This is where we came after he killed her._ He waited for Hulk to say something. Finally, he grew tired of waiting. _I hate this place._

Hulk growled. _Weak, stupid Bruce._ He didn’t take his eyes off the fireflies.

_I don’t deserve that. I didn’t deserve it then, and I don’t deserve it now._

Hulk sighed a long, world-weary sigh. _Stupid Bruce. Stupid, stupid._

Crickets began to sing. Bruce could feel the stillness of the warm June night press around him. This was where his shock had turned into grief, watching the fireflies in the vacant lot, so many years ago. Hulk, beside him, was as unsupportive now as he was then. Bruce longed for something different. _Remember when you weren’t just my inner asshole? Remember, long ago, when you loved me? When you were my champion—when you were my best and only friend?_

Hulk scowled down at him.

And then Bruce shifted, on purpose this time, to himself when he was four. He had on footed pajamas and a plastic Frankenstein mask. The mask was turned around backward. A rubber band, stapled to the mask’s sides to hold it in place, rode under his nose. He looked up at Hulk hopefully. _Smush?_

Hulk smiled. _Little Bruce._ He picked Bruce up carefully. _Hulk smush._ He held the boy against his chest.

Bruce sighed happily, pressed against the big green pec. After a time, Hulk stroked Bruce’s head. _Hurt._

Bruce, the side of his face flush against a wall of muscle, nodded. Hulk plucked him up and turned him around to look at the empty lot full of blinking fireflies floating in the dark like ghosts. _This hurt more. Still lived._

Bruce sat in Hulk’s palm, watching the fireflies. He turned his mask to cover his face. _Still lived._

***

Bruce had almost fallen asleep when a voice sounded from the intercom’s speaker. “ _Hello? Hello? Hello?_ ” Tony sort of whisper-singing a line from Pink Floyd’s _Comfortably Numb_.

Bruce stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. Being still had allowed pain and stiffness to creep into his muscles. Although he couldn’t remember his rampage, his body did. But physical trauma wasn’t what held him to the bed.

“ _Hello? Hello? Hello?_ ”

He limped to the intercom on the wall beside the door. He couldn’t find it within himself to deliver the next line of _Comfortably Numb_ with any playfulness. His voice was flat. “ _Is there anybody in there?_ ”

After a long moment of silence, Tony’s voice came over the intercom. “Hey, fucktard. This is where you tell me what room you’re in.”

Bruce sighed. He pressed the button. “I’m in the blue room.”

Seconds dragged by. “This bed’s too big for one person. You need to come sleep in here.”

“You said you needed space.”

“This is too much space.”

Bruce held his head. “I like this room. It doesn’t have a dead bear in it. I’m staying here.”

“Okay.”

"Good night.”

“Okay, I’ll come there. See you in a minute.”

Bruce took a deep breath and waited. He met Tony at the door. Tony had the hideous pink bedspread from the master bedroom wrapped around him like a cloak. He shuffled past Bruce without a word and lay on top of the blue velvet duvet with the bedspread rolled around him like some ugly Barbie sleeping bag.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Dude, I’m tired. Let’s sleep.”

“I have feelings, Tony. I’m not a machine.”

“I don’t wanna talk right now. All I want to do is sleep.”

“And you’re here because this bed’s a queen instead of a california king?”

His response was muffled by bedspread. “Yeah.”

“Fine. I’ll go sleep in the white room.” Bruce started to leave.

“No, come on. I don’t want to sleep by myself.” Tony sat up and slapped the bed beside him.

“We need to talk.”

“I need to sleep. Fuck, Oprah, we can talk tomorrow. Let’s just sleep.”

Bruce remained standing. “You suck,” he said softly.

Tony lay down. “Go to sleep, dude.”

Bruce crawled in between the sheets on the other side of the bed. He and Tony faced opposite sides. “It won’t work now.”

“What?”

“Your monster shield.”

“The bedspread?”

“It won’t protect you from my homo cooties.”

Tony sighed loudly.

“Once you’ve been injected with my special serum, it’s too late. The process has already begun. Soon, you’ll love Judy Garland and want to wear sequins. You’ll start lisping—”

“Stop.”

“And singing ABBA songs—”

“Stop!”

“And your wrists will begin to flop uselessly as if you were a tyrannosaurus—”

“STOP!”

Bruce fell silent.

Tony’s back butted against his. “And don’t cry.”

Bruce wiped his face and wondered how Tony knew. His voice had been sarcastic, but playful. There had been no tears in it.

“I don’t want to talk, and I don’t want to snuggle, but I love you, okay? Nothing’s changed. I’m just tired.”

“Forgive me if I find the timing of your fatigue rather suspic—”

Tony pounced on him and clamped a hand over his mouth. Bruce didn’t move; he remained on his side. “And stop crying,” Tony whispered. He stroked Bruce’s tear-streaked cheek, then wiped his hand in Bruce’s hair. Bruce sniffled and stared straight ahead as if Tony weren’t leaning over him. Tony flopped over on his side with a sigh and rustled around as he got under the covers and scooched his back against Bruce’s.

Bruce closed his eyes. He tried to still his thoughts, covering them with layers of stubborn nothingness until they were smothered like wild birds dripping oil spilled from a carelessly maintained Nexxon Global oil tanker.

Tony ripped a loud fart. “Fuck, you pumped me full of air.” Seconds later, another one, with a longer duration and more of a chugging sound, filled the silence. “Hey, Bruce.”

Bruce sighed. “Yeah.”

“I’m blowing you kisses.”

“Thanks.”

Another loud, impressive spout of gas burbled beneath the blankets. “Hey, Bruce! I think we just had a baby. I’m naming it Casper.”

Bruce folded his pillow around his head and laughed despite not wanting to do so. “I’m going to insist on a paternity test.”

“A gas chromatograph?”

Laughing, Bruce beat Tony’s head with his pillow. Tony fought back. They ended up breathless in each other’s arms. Bruce lifted up to escape. Tony pulled him back down. Bruce lay his head on Tony’s chest with a sigh.

Tony had said they shouldn’t snuggle. He had also said they should sleep alone. Nothing made sense, but Tony’s heart now beat beneath Bruce’s ear. Maybe things didn’t need to make sense.

But everything in his being revolved around trying to make sense of things. His thoughts clawed against his skull like a cat trapped in a steel box with a vial of hydrocyanic acid.

Tony’s hand draped over his head. A hush fell over Bruce. Surrendering to it, he closed his eyes.

***

_The next morning_

The smell of coffee lifted Bruce’s spirits a little as he staggered down the hallway, through the living room, and into the kitchen. Tony was very thoughtful, making coffee for—he picked up the empty pot—himself.

Bruce microwaved a cup of water for tea. He waited, leaning on the kitchen counter. Tony sat at the kitchen table engrossed in a _Rolling Stone_ article. Bruce poured himself some cereal. “Do you want any cereal?”

“Nah. I had a banana. Thanks.” He glanced up at Bruce. “You look kinda rough.”

Bruce sat down across from Tony with his cereal. “Yeah. I kinda feel like someone beat me up, broke my heart, and kept me up all night with his farting.”

Tony returned to his magazine with an amused grunt. “That lifestyle of yours.... Fuckwad.”

Bruce stirred his granola. “Yeah…. I guess it could also have been that someone saved me from myself, gave me one of the best sexual encounters of my life, and then kept me up all night with his farting.”

“You were out before me. And you snored.”

Bruce smiled, but he felt nervous and raw. He realized suddenly he was too tense to eat. He wanted to talk—really talk—about last night, but he wasn’t sure he was up to it. He pushed his bowl aside and took a small breath.

The phone rang. Tony looked over at the clock on the microwave. Bruce followed his gaze. It was eleven-thirty. Bruce sighed. “Stew.”

“Seth.” Tony frowned at him. “Are you gonna get that?”

Bruce slumped over, covering his head with his hands. “The machine will get it.”

“You’ve never dodged his daily call before. You know he’s going to call here like every hour or something now.”

“Yeah.” Bruce got up and took his bowl to the kitchen sink.

“Why don’t you just talk to him?”

“Because—all kinds of reasons.” Bruce glared at Tony. “Like, for instance, I just fucking cheated on him. Again.”

Tony shrugged. “It isn’t cheating if it doesn’t mean anything.”

Bruce couldn’t respond. There wasn’t any way to take that sentence that didn’t sicken him. He felt as if every organ in his body had suddenly burst. He didn’t know how he stayed upright. He didn’t know how he still drew breath.

His emotional turmoil was so intense that it woke Hulk, who emerged like a leviathan from his depths. _What now?_ The monster sounded resentful and sleepy.

Bruce met him in the middle of an olive grove within the mind they shared. A bland midday sun bathed the landscape in dusty light. He stood before the giant and felt incredibly small. He confessed as if on trial. _I’m supposed to be a genius. But I’m stupid. I’m so fucking stupid._

Hulk nodded. However much the monster loved the little boy, he had no pity for the man. He folded his arms over his chest. _Hulk knows. Weak, stupid Bruce. Always say it. Always mean it._

_He’ll never love me the way I want._

_Nope._ Hulk started filing his nails.

_And I betrayed Seth._

_Yep._

_I’m not just stupid. I’m an asshole._

Hulk didn’t bother looking up from his nails. _Bingo._ He grunted. _Also weak._

Bruce sighed. _Thanks._

Hulk shrugged. _Yep._

***

Tony shrugged. “It isn’t cheating if it doesn’t mean anything.”

Bruce stared at him a little blankly for a second, then his eyes caught flame. “How can you say that? After what just happened between us? After all we’ve been through?”

Tony took a step back. Bruce was righteous, incandescent. He seemed about to explode. “Bruce—”

Bruce grabbed Tony’s shirt and pulled him close. “You mean everything to me.” His eyes softened, misted. “How can you say that meant nothing when it meant the entire world?”

Tony groped for the right words. He yanked Bruce toward him and kissed him in fervent passion. As tears gathered in his eyes, he crushed the scientist against him and whispered hoarsely in his ear. “It was a test. You should know—all theories, all equipment—it must be tested.”

Bruce laughed tearfully, hugged him tighter, then pulled away, holding Tony’s hands to his lips. Feeling as if his heart were being enfolded in velvet, Tony watched Bruce kiss his knuckles. Everything inside him raced, warm and electric.

“I have a few ideas for some tests we can run,” said Bruce archly.

“I love it when you play ‘evil scientist.’ He butted his forehead against Bruce’s. They grinned at each other meaningfully. A happy love theme soared around them. Then credits began to roll….

Fuck. He was turning into as big a bitch as Bruce. Was that really how he had wanted that to go? Maybe. Maybe not. But maybe.

Instead, Bruce simply started at him blankly. He seemed to be having one of his spells. Tony let him be for a few seconds, but he couldn’t handle being passive long. He held Bruce’s shoulders. “Hey, are you there? Bruce?” He brushed Bruce’s hair back and cradled the side of his face. “Bruce?”

Bruce blinked at him. “Hey….”

“Where’d you go?” Tony asked softly.

Bruce stepped back, still looking dazed. Tony let his hands fall away. Bruce took a breath, then said, “In my head.” He glanced away, then looked at Tony strangely. “Sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

Tony wanted to hold Bruce, but he was acting so weird, so skittish. “No big deal. We were just talking.”

“No, that I remember.” He clutched his elbows. “Cheating is cheating. If I were in a committed relationship and discovered someone doing this behind my back, I would feel—hurt doesn’t even begin to describe it.” Bruce stared at the ground. “I’m an asshole. And a hypocrite.” His gaze found Tony’s. “And I have to stop doing this.”

“Okay.” Tony always thought of Bruce as extremely moral. He followed his own code, much as Tony did, but Tony admired his ethics and found him to be one of the most truly honorable people he’d ever met. “That sucks, but whatever. You can either handle your shit, or you can’t.”

A chime sounded. Someone was at the front gate. Tony went to the kitchen panel to see who it was. Bruce, hunched over the breakfast table, rested his head on his arms.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to KlaatuDuLak for beta-reading this chapter.

Bruce snapped up when he heard the voice over the speaker asking Tony to open the gate. “You gave them this address?”

Tony buzzed the girls through. He turned a somewhat amused expression at Bruce. “You saw them, right?”

“They’re children.”

“They’re babes, Bruce. Not children.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Tony scrubbed his chin in mock reflection. “Tony Stark. Billionaire. Playboy. Genius…. Nah, disgusting’s not in there.”

Bruce glowered into his tea. “It should be.”

“Wait—you’re not seizing the moral high ground because you’re concerned.” Tony grinned hugely. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“Liar. You’re fucking green with it.”

“That’s nausea.”

“This is some funny shit, dude!”

“It’s really not.”

“Yes it is.”

“No.”

Tony walked over and shoved Bruce’s head sideways. “Don’t get sand in your cooch, Benji; they’re just sausage jockeys.”

Before Bruce could say anything, the doorbell rang. Tony strode off to get the door. Bruce stayed where he was, hunched over his tea. _The Cat Came Back_ song swirled in his head. _But the cat came back. He just wouldn’t stay away._

***

Bruce sulked in the cramped backseat of the sporty Maserati Merak. He held his backpack in his lap—possibly the only thing that kept Barley out of it. The girl sat next to him, leering and stroking the buttery leather seats with seductive movements. It would have been funny had it not been so annoying.

They sat on the freeway, stuck in traffic with the top down. They were on their way to a mall because the day hadn’t been quite hellish enough. Delaney, in the seat ahead of Bruce, pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse and lit one. Tony glanced at Bruce in the rearview mirror. “You good?”

Bruce contained a squirm. “I guess…. You never let me smoke in any of your vehicles.”

“It’s a convertible.”

“Oh, of course.” He didn’t bother to even thinly disguise his sarcasm. “That explains it.”

Delaney turned around. “What are you so butt-sore about?”

“A heady mix of universal injustices and innumerable personal woes.”

She sighed smoke. “That blows.” She faced the front and began playing with the radio.

Bruce, when he allowed himself to look at Tony, bored holes in the back of the inventor’s skull. Beside him, Barley invaded his thoughts; presumably, because it wasn’t enough to invade his personal space. “What’s in your backpack?”

E.T. A bomb. My rape kit. Jimmy Hoffa. My life. “Stuff.” He shrugged. “IDs, checkbook, money, medicine, toothbrush, various crap. Stuff.”

“Oh.” She frowned a little, her nose wrinkling. “So, it’s sort of like your purse?”

He stared at her without blinking. “It’s sort of like my backpack.”

She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair. “You’re so cute.”

“Thanks. I mean that. But I’m still gay.”

“Maybe we can fix that.”

“HE ISN’T FUCKING BROKEN.” Tony glowered at them from the rearview mirror. “Get back on your side of the car, Lolita, and stop fucking with him or you’re walking.”

Barley paled and withdrew. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared outside the car. Delaney giggled. “Yeah, Bar, you’re too pretty to be a faghag.”

Tony tilted his head at Delaney. “Gayhag’s the politically correct term.”

Delaney laughed loudly. “Oh, my God! You’re a fucking riot!”

No matter how touched Bruce had been by Tony’s intrusion, he felt sorry for Barley. Although her face was turned away, the cheek he could see was so red it could have been slapped. He wasn’t sure what to say to her.

Delaney whooped as she finally found something she liked on the radio. She turned it up, flooding the area around them with Poison’s _Every Rose Has Its Thorns_. Bruce couldn’t believe Tony was allowing that cheeseball shit to flow from his speakers, but Tony grinned at Delaney and cranked the volume higher.

Beside him, Barley’s lip curled in disgust. Bruce smiled at her. Their eyes met. She looked wounded and turned away. Bruce dug around in his backpack. He pulled out his Walkman and separated the headphones. He offered one to Barley. “Do you like Ministry?” She stared at him. He sifted through his cassettes. “I also have Jane’s Addiction, Fugazi, Consolidated—I don’t know if you’d like them—I think they’re great—um…Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Bob Marley and the Wailers, Psychic TV, Morrissey, This Mortal Coil…uh…Janice Joplin…and whale sounds.”

She accepted the speaker. “Fugazi me.” He put in the cassette and opened a bag of earplugs. She grinned as he gave her one. “You carry around earplugs?”

“You never know when you’re going to need earplugs.”

Bruce and Barley sat in the back, listening to music on the separated speakers, their bodies joined together by wires, while the traffic groaned slowly around them. Tony and Delaney flirted and listened to their music in the open. Bruce believed Tony was pretending—at least regarding his enjoyment of the music.

***

_Later that day_

Tony sifted through the day’s mail while Bruce checked the answering machine. Tony glanced at the number of messages over Bruce’s arm. “I’m impressed. He didn’t fill up the tape.”

Bruce seemed preoccupied. He had been fairly quiet all day—even after they dropped off the girls. He pushed ‘play’ and waited for the messages, clutching his elbows and biting his lips together. “Bruce? I hope this is the right number—it’s Jessica.”

Tony pressed ‘pause.’ “Who?”

“She’s in EDEN—my environmental group.” Bruce frowned and pushed ‘play.’

“I hate to bug you, but Seth is driving me crazy. I understand you two are working on some special project or something, but that’s no reason to kill our other campaigns. He opposes everything—even the stuff you and I’ve been working on—and everyone else falls in line behind him. Look, I know you’re busy, but could you talk to him? He listens to you. Miss you. Bye.”

And then another message. “Bruce? Hey, Jessica again. Please, please do something about your boyfriend. He called off the march this morning as if he had the authority to do so. Something about 'it would waste our resources.'" There was a loud sigh of exasperation. "He's not making sense. He’s like psychotic because he misses you or something, I don’t know, but if he tells me one more time that I’m only pissed at him because I hate my father, I’m going to punch him in his smug fucking face. Uh…bye.”

Tony smiled at Bruce. “It’s sad when hippies can't get along.”

Bruce didn’t say anything. The next message played. “Hello, Bruce. I seem to have missed you this morning. I’m sorry I was late for our daily conversation.”

“That’s Stew?”

Bruce nodded and waved him quiet. The voice issuing from the answering machine was deep and refined with a slight British accent. It lashed through the silence with a slow, easy confidence. Tony frowned as he put this voice with the tall, lean blond standing next to Bruce in the photograph of the waterfall—standing with one long arm wrapped around Bruce as if he owned him. He looked at Bruce, listening to the message like a boy awaiting some punishment, and felt a strange chill.

The recording continued, “I wanted to discuss our project—and I so wanted to hear your voice. It’s the highlight of my day, Bruce. I hope you’re well and trust you will call should you need any assistance.”

Bruce listened to the two other messages, both similar to the first, with increasing pallor. He looked so distraught that Tony wanted to hug him. So he punched Bruce in the ribs.

A flash of pure anger knocked the anxiety off Bruce’s face. Tony laughed at him. “You wanna go? Huh? C’mon, Brucie, let’s go.”

Bruce’s eyes softened. He held his side. “I can’t right now. I have to talk to Seth.”

“Oh, yeah. Okay.” Tony took a pen from the vase beside the answering machine. “Go for it.” Before Bruce could go, he added, “Hey, don’t you think Seth kind of sounds like Peter O’Toole?”

Bruce paused. “Now that you mention it, yeah. Sorta.” He cocked his head, smiling goofily. “He kinda looks like him too. That’s funny. I never thought of it before, but yeah. No wonder I was attracted to him. Am attracted to him.” The humor left his face.

“So, he looks and sounds like your boyhood crush, is fanatical about all of the issues you care about, likes all of the same activities you do—”

Bruce looked as if Tony were twisting his nuts. “I know. And he isn't ugly or stinky. He’s fucking perfect. I’m such a dick.” He sighed and slunk away.

Tony wrote ‘Seth Adderly, psychiatrist, Pasadena, CA” on a sticky note beside the phone. He added the phone number from the call log. “Intelligent, educated, kinky, just old enough to push all of your ‘daddy didn’t love me’ buttons, offering enough love to fill in all of your sad little holes, and with the psychiatric bona fides to convince you something’s wrong with you if you question him.”

He watched the light flick on indicating the phone’s first line was in use. Right now, Bruce was talking to someone Tony was almost certain was part of some sort of trap. He didn’t know why someone would want to do that to Bruce, but everything about this was fishy. Something was definitely wrong.

But he couldn’t say anything to Bruce yet. Things had been so weird between them lately. Even if there had been no tension between them at all, he doubted the scientist would believe anything bad about his boyfriend without proof.

Tony clicked on the second line and tapped a number. “Hi, Felina, this is Tony Stark…. Yes, his son. Listen, I need you to run a background check for me. I want Terrino investigating this too.”

***

Bruce relaxed listening to Seth’s voice. He sat on the floor in the green room with his back to the messy bed. Stuffed frogs lay scattered haphazardly about like some child’s representation of a biblical plague. The broken computer and monitor still lay on the floor. Glass, wires, and tiny plastic bits glittered over the carpet. Bruce played with a piece of plastic as Seth talked.

Bruce barely said a word. He let himself enjoy Seth’s company. And then Seth started in on the bomb. “Wait,” Bruce told him. “I don’t think we’re going to need to worry about that.” He paused, weighing whether or not to tell Seth about their discovery. His guilt tipped the scales. “I have wonderful news. Tony and I discovered a new element. We’re calling it bronium. It’s the answer to everything, Seth. We should be able to produce clean energy with it.”

“You know nuclear energy still has hazards—”

“This isn’t nuclear energy. It’s something entirely new. It’s going to revolutionize the way we do everything. We don’t need to worry about sabotaging Nexxon Global—this won’t simply set them back. This will kill them. All of our dirty methods of producing energy—nuclear, coal, gas, oil—all of them will go the way of the dinosaurs. It’s going to be a beautiful future, Seth. It’s going to be everything we thought it could be.”  
He wished they were in the same room, wished he could hold Seth’s hand, see the look on Seth’s face.

“Have you been listening to your tape at night?”

“Um, yeah,” Bruce lied. He laughed. “You’re not quite grasping what I’m saying, are you?”

“You’re telling me about something you and that Stark boy discovered called bronium, and you seem to be under the illusion it will solve all of our energy problems. This sounds like Tony’s pie-eyed optimism at work; you’re a realist. You don’t usually jump at such fanciful notions.”

“This is real.”

“It sounds like science fiction.” Seth’s voice was slightly derisive. “How can you be so certain?”

Bruce smiled. “We’re not a couple of high school nerds playing scientist in a garage. We know what we’re doing.”

“Still, that’s a bold claim—”

“We sent samples to CERN and Livermore for confirmation. We still have a little bit to play with here, of course. Anyway, I believe we can replicate it; those laboratories should concur.” He hadn’t really let himself crow about their discovery. Hearing himself say the news, he couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride. “You wish you could fuck me right now, don’t you?”

“Bruce, my sweet cucumber. I always want to fuck you.”

Bruce’s eyes watered. How could he have cheated on his lovely Seth?

“You said CERN and...what was that other one?”

“Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. We just shorten it to Livermore. Sorry.”

“Hmm. This does sound very promising…. Still, think of all of those birds covered in oil from that last spill.”

“I know. I took time off from working on my doctorates to fly out there and help wash birds.” He had to quiet the green flame of anger the memory provoked. “It was horrible.”

“Yes. Think about those poor birds, Bruce. Shouldn’t Nexxon Global pay for their crimes?”

“They’ll pay by turning to dust. A few years from now, they’ll be as irrelevant as a company making buggy harnesses when cars began to claim the roads.” He sighed happily. He had let the bomb project and his unresolved issues with Tony suppress his feelings for Seth. Seth loved him, and while Bruce didn’t exactly feel that way, he was eager to get home and try to build a solid relationship with him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Dubcon alert! It's similar to the previous dubcon scenes; however, there's a tiny bit that I think is a little dark, but it gets better.

Tony spooned Bruce in the master bedroom and played with his stomach. He rubbed the spray of hairs over it the wrong way and skated his nails gently across the skin. Bruce, somewhere on the edge of sleep, wriggled against him. “Stop,” he murmured. “Tickles.”

Tony rubbed his whiskers against Bruce’s neck. “Supposed to.”

“Fuck!” Bruce flopped about like a fish on the deck of a boat. He sighed angrily. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“I guess you’re not trying hard enough.”

Bruce rearranged his blankets with irate tugs. “I’m trying to get in a few hours before you start perfuming the room with your butt.”

“Oh, really?”

“The ghost of that corndog you ate at the mall will be visiting us soon.”

“Yeah?” Tony coiled an arm and trapped Bruce’s head beneath it. He kept pressing Bruce into the mattress until he stopped fighting. With a laugh, Tony freed him.

“Dick.” But he pushed his back against Tony.

Tony stroked Bruce’s hair. “You know, when you were constipated, you unleashed some silent-but-deadlies that were crimes against humanity.”

Bruce yawned. “Humanity’s overrated.”

“They seared the hairs out of my nostrils.”

Bruce giggled. “Maybe I should make stinkbombs.”

“We could create some mechanism that releases farts on demand.” Tony cuddled Bruce’s chest. “That’s what we should call it—the weapons system: farts on demand—FOD.”

Bruce pressed closer. “I wish we’d had some FOD when Delaney was deep-throating that corndog.” Tony laughed, but Bruce seemed genuinely disturbed. “What the fuck’s wrong with these girls?”

“Orange County. All the daddies are staunch Republicans, and all of their daughters are nasty-ass sluts.”

“That’s mean.” But Bruce snickered.

“They were cute, though, huh? All decked out in their skank-wear?” He kissed Bruce’s shoulder and rubbed his thigh beneath the blankets.

“What are we doing?” Bruce asked in a small voice.

“Trying to go to sleep.”

“No. I mean us. What is this now?”

“I don’t know, but it’s pretty fucking great.”

Bruce hesitated, then said, “It isn’t great for me.” It wasn’t an accusation, merely a bland statement of fact.

Tony, stroking Bruce’s chest, paused. “You’re over-thinking this.”

“I have a boyfriend.” Bruce sighed. “And you have…anyone you want.”

Tony rested his chin on Bruce’s shoulder. “I don’t see the problem.”

“I know you don’t. It’s my problem, not yours.”

“So, what does that mean?”

Bruce pulled Tony’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. “It means this is getting awkward.” He looked over his shoulder and craned an arm to touch Tony’s face. “You look so much better than you did when I first got here. You’re strong. You’re stable. You’re the unconquerable Tony Stark, ready to take on the world.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Tony smoothed a hand down Bruce’s side. “Let’s celebrate.”

Bruce pulled away slightly. “Let’s sleep.”

Tony snorted. “Sleep’s good.” But he didn’t fall asleep. He stayed awake, wrapped around Bruce, feeling the scientist relax against him. Long after Bruce’s even breaths indicated deep sleep, Tony remained awake. He felt restless and horny.

He disengaged from Bruce and flopped on his back. He glared at the ceiling. He kicked around the covers. He rubbed one out, letting his movements bounce the mattress up and down, hoping to jostle Bruce awake. Bruce slept like the fucking dead.

Tony soaked Bruce’s sheet-covered ass with gizz. Nothing. The fuckstick didn’t even move. Tony stared at the darkness above him. He considered getting up and going to the lab to fuck around with something. But an idea occurred to him.

He spooned Bruce again. Bruce shifted a little closer. Tony kissed the nape of Bruce’s neck. Bruce made a very small, sleepy noise—like a mouse yawning.

Tony glided a hand down Bruce’s chest, down…. His hand was at the top of the stomach just below the ribcage when Bruce flinched. Tony caressed the area gently. Bruce hadn’t reacted much to that solar plexus punch the night before, but, apparently, he still felt it. Maybe that shouldn’t have pleased Tony, but it did. Bruce had been so weird that night; it was nice to know he was human.

Bruce was still and quiet as Tony rubbed down his lean, relaxed abdomen to the waistband of his briefs. Tony slipped his hand inside. His fingers grazed the root of Bruce’s cock. Bruce’s breath shifted slightly as Tony lifted the shaft from Bruce’s thigh.

Tony squeezed Bruce’s cock into increasing hardness. He played up and down the shaft. He teased and tugged the head. Whenever Bruce seemed on the verge of waking, Tony quieted his movements, only to stir up again when Bruce relaxed.

Tony checked the heft of one of Bruce’s swollen testicles and discovered they were sore as well. He treated them gently and focused most of his attention on Bruce’s cock. Tony stimulated the sleeping scientist for nearly an hour. Bruce was such a sound sleeper; it was almost a crime not to fuck with him.

When Bruce’s cock was leaking like a broken faucet, Tony stopped. He lay back and watched. After a few minutes, Bruce gave a small, frustrated, “Ungh.” Tony grabbed Bruce’s full sack from behind and gave his heavy balls a slight tweak.

Bruce moaned. Tony grinned. “Hurts, huh?” he whispered. Bruce whimpered and curled around his stomach. The blue balls ache had spread into his gut. He audibly gritted his teeth. Tony loved it.

Bruce was putting on a great show. And then he groaned very softly, “No. Daddy, no. Don’t.”

Tony’s heart stopped.

He slapped the bottom of the light on the nightstand to activate the nightlight and grabbed Bruce by the shoulders. “Bruce! Wake up!”

Bruce flailed awake. In an almost bizarrely deep voice, he said, “STRONG!”

Out of instinct, Tony clocked him. Bruce’s head lolled to the side. “Fuck, Bruce, fuck.” Tony pulled Bruce close. He wondered if he had hit him too hard.

Bruce thrashed weakly against him. “Smash….”

Tony kissed Bruce’s forehead. “C’mon, freakjob,” he said gently. “It’s okay. You’re okay, bro. You’re okay.” He punctuated each statement with small, quick kisses—planting them in Bruce’s hair. “Snap out of it.”

Bruce answered with feeble growls. Tony held him to his chest, but Bruce continued to struggle. He kissed Bruce directly on his snarling, angry-ass mouth.

Bruce’s entire body thawed in response. He sagged in Tony’s arms. His lips were deliciously warm and as soft as fine Italian leather. Tony tasted them gently. Bruce didn’t move; his stillness unnerved Tony.

Tony sat up and stroked Bruce’s face. Bruce looked at him with fearful, glazed eyes. “What happened? Did I hurt you?”

Tony felt like a shitheel. “You were dreaming.”

Bruce grimaced in pain. “I’m sorry I woke you.” He writhed into a fetal position. “Fuck, man, my nutsack isn’t a reset button.”

Tony went with Bruce’s impression of what had transpired. “You were out of control. I had to do something.”

“Yeah.” Bruce’s contrite expression wrenched Tony’s heart. “I’m know. These stupid rages—it’s humiliating. I’m—I’m so sorry.” He choked on his words a second, then managed, “This hasn’t happened before—not when I’ve been asleep.”

Tony didn’t want to lie to Bruce anymore. He kissed Bruce’s mouth as if he were biting into a juicy nectarine, without hesitation and with a bit of sucking at the end. This time, Bruce responded with hungered passion. He grabbed Tony’s head with both hands and invited him inside his mouth with bold sweeps of tongue.

Perhaps it was because they had made kissing taboo, but every movement either of them made, every wet caress, filled Tony’s body with electric butterflies. He wanted Bruce on some deep, intrinsic level. He wanted to suck the sweetness from Bruce’s body and carry it around inside him.

Wait…. Did he want Bruce to impregnate him? Ewww….

He had been holding Bruce in his arms, now he pushed away from him. Bruce gasped as they pulled apart. That gasp was hot—it was dick-twitching hot. Tony’s viscera did a somersault. Desire rammed all other thoughts from his head.

Tony slid down to kiss Bruce’s chest, rubbing down his body, loving the lean, unassuming vigor of it. Bruce looked like a reasonably healthy academic; no one could guess at the man’s inner strength. No one would look at those gentle deer’s eyes and imagine the terrible things their owner had endured. They had been so haunted when he and Bruce had first met; now they were nothing but soulful. Tony wondered if he had had something to do with that.

Tony sucked Bruce’s nipples as the scientist’s fingers played in his hair. Bruce was still folded up like some origami animal. Tony pushed Bruce’s legs down.

Bruce laughed ruefully. “Uh, no. I appreciate the thought, but no.”

Tony kissed down Bruce’s stomach and stroked his thighs, pushing them firmly away when they tried to tuck up again.

“I’m too sore.” Bruce held Tony’s head. “Don’t.”

“It’s the best thing for it. You’ll feel better.”

“I guess you have gnads of steel.”

“Iron.” Tony said between licks, just to be difficult.

“Fine. Iron.” Bruce laughed a little. “But I don’t, and I was already bruised from last time.” He caressed Tony’s jaw. “Come up here and I’ll suck you.”

An almost crippling guilt ravaged Tony’s body. “Shut up and stop being such a pussy.” He butted his forehead against Bruce’s solar plexus.

Bruce gave a surprised gasp. “Ow,” he managed after a second. “Asshole! I’m bruised there too.”

Tony ignored him, licking his way down the stubborn scientist’s silken pleasure trail. Bruce was still squirming and bitching when Tony yanked his briefs down and grabbed up a mouthful of cock. Bruce held still and shut the fuck up.

Tony sucked Bruce’s cock hard and worked it with his hand. Bruce’s short, square nails grazed his back. “Stretch up here,” Bruce commanded softly.

“No,” Tony said around Bruce’s glans. He came off of it, still jacking it with his hand. “This one’s on me.”

Bruce seemed about to protest, but Tony licked one of his swollen balls while kneading his glans. Whatever Bruce had been about to say died in his throat. Tony tongued the sensitive underside of Bruce’s glans and lightly rubbed the ache he knew nestled below Bruce’s fuzzy navel. Bruce mewed.

The soft sound produced an explosion of glitter in Tony’s stomach. His hardening cock jumped. He sucked Bruce’s cock deep and hard. He sucked and sucked. Reminding himself that Bruce was in pain, he fought to keep his hand movements gentle. He stroked Bruce’s inner thighs; he caressed Bruce’s sack; he rubbed Bruce bellybutton to pubes. And he sucked and sucked and sucked.

He wanted to overwhelm Bruce with ecstasy. Bruce didn’t merely seem overwhelmed, he seemed completely paralyzed. His breaths hissed in his flung back throat, and his entire body was rigid. And then his pelvis lifted, pushing deeper into Tony’s mouth. A loud moan rolled out of his body, and he shot cum down Tony’s throat.

Tony drew back, fighting to choke down Bruce’s abundant cum. Some of it sprayed into his nose. More of it splattered on his lips. He chuckled, wiping his mouth with the side of his hand as Bruce continued to moan and tremble. He flopped down beside Bruce and rolled him over on his side so that they were facing each other.

Tony’s mouth and nostril still buzzed with sperm. He kissed Bruce’s lips softly, smearing them with cum. Bruce kissed him back, but listlessly. Tony giggled. “Feel better?”

Bruce sighed blissfully and caressed around Tony’s earlobe. “So much.”

They lay face to face, their chests touching, their legs entwined, kissing and stroking each other with leisurely gentleness. Tony didn’t bother turning the nightlight off. He enjoyed watching Bruce’s sleepy face.

“Thank you,” Bruce whispered. He outlined Tony’s lower lip with a soft finger pad. “God, kissing your sexy mouth…. Thanks for that too.” He placed his finger over Tony’s lips as Tony started to say something. “Shhh. It’s okay. I know better. You were trying to shock me out of my brainless rage, and then it didn’t matter anymore.” He replaced his finger with the lightest of kisses. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Tony wanted to rebut this. But something wouldn’t let him. “Nothing’s changed.” He stared into Bruce’s glassy eyes and wanted to take it back.

“Good.” Bruce gave him another sweet kiss, then sank into his pillow, a slight smile on his face, and shut his eyes.

Tony couldn’t say anything for a moment. When he was able to get his voice to function, he said, “I love you.”

Bruce’s eyes slit open. He drowsily pawed Tony’s forearm and dragged it to his chest. “I love you. Always have. Always will.”

***

_The next morning_

Tony sat in the green room on the floor, attempting to restore Bruce’s fucked up computer. He paused in his work to sip coffee, the sloshing cup leaving a ring on the nearby desk.

He wrestled with his feelings and couldn’t quite beat them down. Why shouldn’t he and Bruce be together? What was holding him back? Was it the stigma of being gay—or of having a gay lover? So what if other people didn’t understand it? When had he ever cared much about what other people thought? All of those tabloid shitheads, his parents’ socialite friends, his fair weather, so-called buddies—they could all go fuck themselves. Sideways.

A tiny blast of static announced the intercom’s activation before Bruce’s voice blasted over it. “ _Free me from this give and take._ ”  
Tony untangled his legs and walked to the intercom, threading his way through the little piles of computer parts he had built. “I’m not doing any Depeche Mode. You can go fuck yourself.”

“What??? That’s not Depeche Mode! But I can give you some Depeche Mode, mother fucker. I have a big load of Depeche Mode with your name on it.”

Tony grinned. Somebody was in a good mood this morning. “I was just yanking your chain, Benji. Don’t have a cow, man.”

“You kind of remind me of Bart Simpson.”

“Yeah, you remind me of Lisa.”

A moment of silence. “Fuck you. Lisa’s cool…. Do you need another song?”

“Fuck you back. It’s fucking Fugazi. _Words._ I know that shit. God knows you’ve played it enough.” He paused a second. The song Bruce had chosen and its verse hit him. “ _Free me from this great debate._ ” It could have been a veiled plea. And yet, Bruce sounded happy. “I’m in the green room.”

“I’m making pancakes. Wait.” A few seconds later. “Uh…burning pancakes. A few of them anyway. They’re kinda well done. Extra crispy…. The rest are okay. Come eat!”

“There in a sec.” He shook electronic debris from his shorts and realized suddenly that he had spent the better part of the morning trying to repair Bruce’s broken shit and was now looking forward to seeing Bruce’s stupid face and eating Bruce’s pancakes—which, even if the butt pirate cooked them properly, probably contained oatmeal or sprouted wheat or something that made them disgusting. Obviously, he loved Bruce.

But maybe he was also _in_ love with Bruce.

And maybe that was okay.

***

They finished their overcooked and undercooked wheat germ and prune pancakes, then moved into the den and watched the _120 Minutes_ Tony had recorded for Bruce. They walked to get the mail, then lounged around the sun room reading the newly-delivered magazines.

Tony cast a line. Nonchalant, he didn’t look up from his _Popular Mechanics_. “Delaney still suspects we’re secretly a couple.”

Bruce looked up with a grin. “Those fucking girls, huh? That’s crazy.” He went back to admiring the bud centerfold in _High Times_. “Mmm… Gorgeous.”

“We’d actually make a pretty decent couple.”

Bruce grunted. “Yeah, for about three months.”

Tony frowned at him. “Why do you say that? We’d be the best gaywad couple ever. We’d be the envy of all of the other gaywad couples.”

“Newsflash: you’re not gay.” He didn’t even look up from his magazine.

“So? Maybe I’m bi.”

“I’m not even sure you’re bi.” Bruce squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what you are. Maybe someday someone will invent a more robust taxonomy for sexuality, because straight, gay or bi seem terribly inadequate.” He rubbed his forehead, then smiled weakly at Tony. “You don’t look at guys when we’re out. You don’t seem to have any reaction to guys in magazines or movies. But you notice women. Even ugly ones. You notice them; they notice you.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“For starters, I know who I am. What I am. I’m gay. I like men. I like cock. I like men’s assholes. I like their voices. I like their adam’s apples. I like everything about them. If, someday, I die with a cock in my mouth, it’ll be a good death.”

Tony grinned. “Okay, if I’m around you and you’re dying, I’ll make sure to stick a cock in your mouth.”

Bruce laughed a little and shook his head. “Thanks, bro.”

Tony waited for Bruce to say something else. He didn’t. He just kept reading. Tony decided to hit this with everything he had. “I notice you. I like you.”

Bruce looked up at him with warm eyes. “I know,” he said softly. “I also know that if we tried to be a couple you would destroy me. You would totally and utterly destroy me.”

“You’re killing this and it’s barely in the design phase.” Tony couldn’t withhold his disgust. “What the fuck’s the matter with you? I thought you wanted this.”

“Tony, look at me.” Bruce’s voice couldn’t have been gentler. It was kind of revolting.

Tony complied, but grudgingly.

“Maybe it’s because my childhood was so screwed—I don’t know why, really—” He took a deep breath. “—but I want the whole traditional love-romance thing. The fairytale. Two people, totally in love, devoted to each other in every way; they don’t take separate vacations because they can’t stand the thought of being apart, never go to bed angry, cheesy little gifts—the whole till death do us part business—all of that. I want the whole thing.”

“With BDSM and shit too, huh?”

Bruce cocked his head a little. “Not necessarily, but a man can dream.”

“Fuck, dude. You’re tripping.”

Bruce looked incredibly sad. “Maybe. But I want what I want.”

Tony felt like something was getting lost between them. “I love hanging out with you. We have fun together. We have awesome sex. I don’t know about all of this other stuff, but isn’t that a good start?”

Bruce heaved a sigh. “I want you to look at me—”

“Doing it right now—been doing it. What the fuck—”

“Just listen, okay? Imagine waking up next to me for the rest of your life.”

“You need a flashlight to shine under your face when you say that.”

Bruce smiled, but there was a wince to it.

“You know, I’m sorry your self-esteem or whatever’s in the toilet, but you’re pretty fucking hot for a dude. And I like waking up next to you. I like falling asleep with you. I like waking up at night and finding you beside me.” Tony paused, feeling foolish. “Why isn’t that enough, fucktard? Why do you have to make everything complicated?”

Bruce looked strangely helpless. “I—sometimes I feel like I love you too much already. If we were a couple—” He began tracing some invisible line on the arm of his chair intently. “If…that were to happen…there wouldn’t be any brakes. I would lose myself.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I would lose myself completely….”

Tony felt a vacuum in the room. They teetered on the edge of something. The smallest motion, and it would suck them in. Tony wondered if he should move to Bruce’s chair, wondered if he should kiss him.

Bruce continued to watch his finger stroke the nonexistent pattern. “In a picosecond, I would love you with my entire heart,” he looked up at Tony with the saddest of smiles, “and you would be completely bored with me in three months. If you made it that long

Tony bristled. “We’d still be trying out new positions.”

Bruce smirked. “Okay, maybe we’d make it longer than that. You’d still get bored. I’d still be devastated.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“On purpose. It’s your nature. You can’t help it. You’d rip me to pieces without thinking twice about it.” He grinned. “You’d see something shiny to play with or conquer. I’d be a mote in the rearview mirror of some fancy car.” Despite his carefree smile, his dark eyes were heavy with emotion.

Tony wanted to counter Bruce’s silly argument, but a slender wire of fear held him in check. In a strange way he loved Bruce more in that instant than he had ever imagined possible. He was used to getting what he wanted. But he loved Bruce, so….“Butt pirate.” He threw the pillow he was holding at Bruce’s head. “You’re the cheater with all the secrets. I’d probably be a mote in the mirror of your piece of shit Datsun.”

“Hey! She has a spoiler now.”

“Still a Datsun. I can’t even make that junker cool.”

Bruce laughed. “Only a bad artist blames his clay.”

Tony launched himself at Bruce. Bruce held the pillow up like a shield. Tony tore it away from him and beat Bruce over the head. Fucking Bruce countered by tickling Tony’s armpits. They tumbled out of the chair, throwing elbows and knees and laughing. Bruce mashed Tony’s head sideways across the carpet. Tony elbowed Bruce in the ribs. Bruce pulled back with a grunt. Tony scrambled on top of him, sat on his face and farted.

“You blew me a kiss?” Bruce laughed.

“Yeah. Hang on a sec. Might be able to make it a Hershey’s kiss.”

Bruce shoved Tony’s ass aside and curled into a breathless ball of laughter. Tony crawled toward him. Bruce’s hands signaled time out.  
Victorious, Tony sprawled on his back on the carpet and stared at the ceiling. Bruce toppled beside him, giggling happily. “Now let’s do something a little less nerve wracking—like russian roulette.”

***

_Later that evening_

Delaney and Barley, dressed like prostitutes and equipped with fake I.D.’s, showed up wanting to go out. Tony hadn’t been to a night club since getting sober. Bruce believed he was ready for it.

Bruce hadn’t showered that morning and felt sticky. He got clean, then wiped off the steamed mirror and dried his hair. He always felt a little self-conscious about his appearance. But Tony thought he was hot. He smiled thinking about that and actually felt kind of hot.

Tony….

Bruce and Seth had done a lot of wild fucking. They had played with bondage, electricity, and anal speculums. Seth had allowed him to torture his cock and balls. They had fucked in parks, in the restrooms of libraries and museums, and in the public pool one night at Bruce’s apartment complex. They had even fucked upside down, hanging from some contraption Seth believed stimulated his mind by increasing blood flow to his brain.

But none of that exotic sex had been as thrilling as fucking Tony in the media room.

Why??? The steam had obscured his reflection again. He wiped it away.

Because he didn’t love Seth. He loved Tony. He loved Tony totally and completely. He loved Tony. He fucking loved Tony.

Tony had loved Liz. He had loved her when he was around her. That wasn’t enough. That was the pinnacle of Tony’s love. Bruce needed more—especially from someone he loved so much. He knew he would get hurt. He knew it.

He could feel Hulk grumbling beneath his skin. Bruce pushed him down, wondering what had provoked him. Then he looked in the mirror. The face staring back at him was full of fear.

And then a small, wild, stray thought shot through him. What if the cat didn’t die once the box was opened? What if it defied the odds and survived the poison to become the strongest, most beautiful, most wonderful cat that ever lived? What if true love existed? What if Tony could be different with him? What if this were that once in a lifetime kind of love? Wasn’t that worth a gamble? Hell, wasn’t the chance of that even worth getting hurt?

He couldn’t get dressed quickly enough. He had to tell Tony. He had to let him know—he had been wrong. He had been terribly, terribly wrong.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Try not to hate me yet. There two more chapters to go.
> 
> WARNING: A scene contains underage (teen) sex. If this will prevent you from enjoying this chapter, email me at: armchairorphan@gmail.com, and I'll send you an edited version. Please put: AO3 MTYDM, in the subject line.

Bruce didn’t need to use the intercom to find Tony and the girls. He followed the music pouring from the den. He didn’t recognize the song. It was the sort of banal bubblegum crap Delaney seemed to enjoy. She must have taken over the stereo. After he talked to Tony, he would have to save Barley from her friend’s musical tyranny.

The thought of talking to Tony sent a chill down his spine. He paused to calm Hulk. After enduring a few ‘weak, stupid Bruces,’ he revived his courage and continued on his way.

Bruce walked into the den and stopped as if he had hit a wall. Delaney, nude except for a red garter belt and black stockings, was on her hands and knees. Her head disappeared under the coffee table as Tony pumped her ass. Barley stood on top of the coffee table, pulling a belt around Tony’s neck and petting his hair as he fisted her and kissed her breasts. She had a tattoo of a green cat made of pot leaves on her hip.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him. “Bruce!”

“Nice ink.” He laughed a little, feeling lightheaded.

Tony flashed him a smile. “Hey, bro!” He grabbed the remote and turned down the volume. His other hand was still inside Barley.

“Hey!” Bruce smiled back. His face was numb.

“The girls got bored.”

“Delaney’s still getting bored.” Barley giggled. She leaned slightly in Bruce’s direction. “Do you wanna play?”

“Je-sus-fuc-king-chri-ssttt, Bar.” Delaney’s syllables were chopped as Tony fucked her. “Get-a-cc-lue.”

Barley hissed at her. She smiled imploringly at Bruce. “I know you’re gay, but I found a cucumber in the fridge.”

Bruce stared directly into Tony’s eyes. Nothing passed between them. Tony could have been staring at a liverwurst sandwich or the _Mona Lisa_. Bruce wished he could disappear.

“That’s a…uh…lovely offer, but—I need—there’s something—” He would have gnawed off his own limb to escape. “I’ll be by the pools.”

“Cool,” said Tony.

Bruce turned and fled as nonchalantly as possible. Behind him, the music blasted. He moved through the house like a ghost, weightless, drifting, barely touching the ground.

He found himself sitting on a deserted beach with Hulk. They sat opposite each other, a chess board between them. Everything was black and white. _I don’t want to play right now._

Hulk picked up a knight and threw it at Bruce. It sailed past Bruce’s shoulder. The next one, however, hit him squarely in the chest. _Weak, stupid Bruce._

_I’m not doing this with you. Not now. Leave me alone._

Hulk produced the steel box from behind his back. The top swung open as he presented it to Bruce. _Yours._

Bruce stared at it with disgusted sadness. _I don’t want it. Maybe you can keep your toenail clippings or some other vile thing in it._

Hulk turned the box over on Bruce’s head and clicked it with a fingernail. Dong-dong-dong-DONG….

 _Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Cute._ Bruce removed the box from his head. He heaved a sigh. _Fuck off and die, Hulk._

The world pulled him back. He found himself outside, barefoot on the cement, staring at the three large pools and the fountain. The smaller surrounding fountains and waterfalls filled the dusk with soothing noise.

Bruce sat by the leftmost pool and watched the central fountain. He rolled up a leg of his jeans and let one foot dangle in the water. He dragged it slowly back and forth. A Joni Mitchell song his mother used to sing threaded through his thoughts. He hummed it softly, singing a verse or two when it suited him. It was sweet, slightly melancholy and strangely, beautifully resigned. _I've looked at clouds from both sides now/ From up and down, and still somehow_....

A realization struck him like a fist. Seth. How could he have been so thoughtless?

He found the poolside cordless phone and called Seth. He stood, waiting, as the phone rang. It went to voicemail. His shoulders dropped. He started to hang up, but couldn't. "It's me. Listen, I care about you, but I can't do this anymore. I don't love you, and I never will. Time—nothing will change that. You're great, Seth. You're smart and sexy and sweet. You deserve someone who's as wonderful as you are. Loving someone who can't love you is…torturous. You don’t need that. And…there are things about me you don't know, because I've been too ashamed to tell you. I'm broken. I—that doesn't matter, I guess, but the cliché 'it's not you, it's me' is true in this case. You deserve better."

He realized he couldn’t leave it there. “And Seth, you need to drop this bomb fantasy. Please, you’re better than that. The fossil fuel industry is a destructive force; we don’t defeat them by becoming like them. We fight them through increasing public awareness and finding safe, sustainable alternatives. We can take extreme measures to thwart their activities, but those measures must be peaceful. Peace is the only way forward. Anyway, I’m sorry.”

He hung up and clutched the phone to his chest. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. And then another. He congratulated himself on his calm maturity, and then dropped to the concrete and began to cry. He stayed there, hugging his legs, tears and hot breaths against his knees.

After a while, he lay on his side, the phone beside him, and watched the fountain. He kept very still and felt perfectly calm. Hulk materialized beside him. Bruce wasn’t sure if he were hallucinating the green beast, or if they were in a vision of the pools within his head. It didn’t really matter either way.

Hulk snorted and dipped a gnarly big toe in the water. _Bruce?_

_Yes, Hulk?_

_Never liked Stew anyways._

Bruce sighed. _Thanks._

_Bruce?_

_Yeah?_

_Don’t like Tony either._

_I know._

_Also don’t like Bruce._

Bruce snorted, amused. _At last, something we have in common._

_Yep._

His eyes felt hot. He didn’t want to cry anymore. _God, Hulk. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I ever make anything work?_

Hulk shrugged. _Weak and stupid._ He sounded quite proud of his assessment.

_Thanks. I’m so glad you’re a part of me._

After a few minutes of sweet silence, Hulk stirred up again. _You can sing more of that song now. I like that song. Remember Mom singing it?_

_Go to sleep._

An oddly wistful growl. _Sing it?_

He relented, singing very softly until the monster fell asleep.

***

Tony, in his briefs and a fuzzy red robe because it was kind of cool out, found Bruce where he said he would be, by the pools. He sat beside him. He stuck his feet in the water and sloshed them around. “This would be a great night to get in the hot tub, huh?”

“Sure.” Bruce didn’t look up from the water. “Where are the girls?”

“I packed them and sent them packing.” He leaned back, resting his weight behind him on his hands. “You know what they say, ass comes and goes.”

Bruce grunted noncommittally.

Tony looked at Benji and felt heartsick. He was the kid throwing stones at the dog again, shooing the dog away from some impending danger. 'Go away, dog!' Blubber, blubber. 'Really, dog. I don't love you! Go away!' But this was the right thing to do. That look on Bruce's face when he saw the threesome. That look almost tore Tony's heart out. Bruce was right. If he had looked like that when they weren't even in a relationship.... Fuck. If they were together and something happened, it probably would kill him.

Tony stared at his feet under the water and felt lost in the depth of his love for Bruce. “Maybe instead of clubbing, we should go to some hotel bar or someplace where they play Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett and shit like that. You know, so you can pick up a geezer and get your fuck on tonight too.”

Bruce didn’t say a word.

Tony sighed. “You think you’ll still be chasing geezers when we’re old?” He shoved his shoulder against Bruce’s, knocking him sideways a little. “Am I going to have to pull your grey-haired ass out of graves and be all like, ‘Dude, no! Their cocks are rotten! You’ll get zombie AIDS, bro!’ Will it be like that?”

Bruce looked up at him slowly. “Zombie AIDs? Seriously?"

Tony splashed a foot around and shrugged. “Something like that.” He looked over at Bruce. “That wasn’t funny?”

“Not even slightly.”

“Zombie herpes? Zombie crabs?”

Bruce’s breath mimicked a laugh. He threw his head back. “That’s how you see this, huh? You’ll be saving my ass when we’re old?”

Tony stared at the water. “I think I’ll be saving your ass for the rest of my life.” He shook away the emotions threatening to break through. “And you’ll be saving mine.” He sniffled in spite of his efforts. “That’s what bros do, right?”

Bruce rested his head on Tony’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice warm and soft, “that’s what bros do.”

***

_The next day_

Tony searched the lab for the red and gold canister containing their bronium. He wondered if Bruce had done something weird with it. Bruce had been sorta weird since yesterday. He hadn’t seemed hurt exactly, just restless. That morning, he had wanted to go running, alone. That was okay. Benji needed some ‘me time.’ No biggie.

But almost as soon as he had left, Tony had received a call from Livermore saying their sample of bronium had disappeared. They were looking, but it seemed to have vanished. They asked for another sample, but Tony couldn’t find the bronium he and Bruce had held in reserve.

He gave up and went to the house, hoping to find Bruce had returned. The fuckwad was still gone. Fuckwad.

Someone buzzed from the gate. He answered. “Who’s there?”

An elegant voice wafted through the speaker. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Seth Adderly, Bruce’s…ex-boyfriend. I—”

“Don’t you live in Pasadena? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m not here to cause trouble. I have Bohr and some of Bruce’s things—”

“Bohr? You have a dead physicist in your trunk?”

“Bruce’s hedgehog. I’ve been taking care of him, but I can’t now. My mother passed away last night, and I’m flying home to assist with the arrangements.” He cleared his throat. “My sister’s easily overwhelmed, and my father’s quite ill. I’m truly sorry to bother you with this, but I didn’t know what else do with the little thing.”

Tony thought of himself as something of an expert at sizing people up. He had a great bullshit detector. Something about Seth had set off his alarms, but the results of the background check he had ordered hadn’t come back yet. Tony still felt uneasy about the man, but the story was plausible. Now that Seth mentioned it, Tony did remember Bruce saying something about having some type of ugly, useless pet. Maybe a hedgehog. He couldn’t remember its name, but Bohr sounded like something Bruce would call a hedgehog. He invited Seth inside and opened the gate for him.

After a few minutes, the doorbell rang. A man stood outside with his arms around a large cardboard box. Tony opened the door. Seth gave him a slight, polite smile. “I would shake your hand, but—” He nodded at the box.

“It’s all right,” Tony told him. “Come in.”

He showed Seth a table where he could set the box. Tony glanced inside. A cage containing a hedgehog, some CDs and books, and a few folded shirts. The spines of the two books were visible. One was a collection of Gary Snyder poems and the other was a book about quarks. Definitely Bruce-stuff.

Seth stroked the topmost shirt. He looked like he had been crying, and he smelled like he had been drinking. His sadness seemed genuine. Tony couldn’t hate him. He held back his snark; he couldn’t kick a man this far down. “Sorry about your mom. That really sucks. I hate funerals.”

“Thank you. Me too.” He smiled in a sort of shy way that reminded Tony of Bruce. “We weren’t that close, really, but she was the least beastly member of my family. Honestly, it’s not the funeral I’m dreading; it’s all of the wankers who will be attending.”

Tony snorted in commiseration. He would be in the same boat if his mother died. “Yeah, my mom’s surrounded by idiots too.”

Seth perked up a little. “With mine, it’s not just her friends—and they’re all gigantic twits—it’s the family as well. My sister—a hopping, skipping moron—and my father, who couldn’t say a nice thing about me if someone put a gun to his head.”

Tony rubbed his chin. “Fuck, man, I feel you.” He felt kind of shitty for being suspicious of him. The guy seemed nice enough. He could even sort of see why Bruce had liked him. “Do you want a drink?”

Seth gazed over Tony’s shoulder at the stairway. “Is Bruce around?”

“He went for a run. He should be back in a few minutes.”

“Oh.” Seth caressed the edge of the box. He looked like he might start crying. “Bruce has such exquisite timing.”

Tony gave Seth a little shoulder tap. “Dude, you need a drink.”

Seth glanced at his watch. “I don’t really have time.”

“A shot. You have time for a shot.”

Seth nodded, but still looked ready to run out the door. Tony poured them both a few shots of scotch, from the foyer bar, into crystal tumblers. He gave a glass to Seth. Seth smiled at him morosely and lifted his glass. “Here’s to endings.”

Tony nodded. They drank. Seth set his glass down next to the box and pulled something from inside his blazer. Tony decided they needed another round. As he turned to grab the bottle from the bar, he heard a loud sniff. He almost dropped the bottle as he faced Seth, who was rubbing his nose.

“A bump before leaving.” Seth handed Tony a small baggie—the kind one might find housing cheap jewelry—of white powder. “I’ll never make it through customs with this. Would you take care of it for me?”

Tony stared at the little bag of powder. He couldn’t lift his eyes from it.

Seth said, rather absently, “It’s only coke, not smack. Smack’s your problem, right?”

Tony, who always had a comment for everything, couldn’t speak. He pinched the bag, rolled its beautiful contents between his fingers, explored its heft, and felt a powerful and familiar pull—as if he were being reunited with an old lover.

“Bruce thinks they’re both terrible, self-righteous little pothead that he is. Nothing’s terrible. The secret is moderation. All things in moderation.” He pulled an eyeglasses case from his pocket and set it on the table. “I suppose I should leave my kit too.”

Tony knew, without looking, that the case contained a small mirror, razor, and maybe a straw.

Seth smiled. “Oh, and not telling everyone—that’s the second part of the secret. Moderation and discretion.”

Tony didn’t say anything.

“I need to get to the airport. Nice meeting you.” Seth paused. “I’ll let myself out.”

Tony heard the door close. He never took his eyes off the powder.

***

Bruce rounded the final bend of the trail that wound around the property and saw a white VW van sitting in the driveway. Curious, he approached it. A blond man descended the steps of the front porch. He stopped when he saw Bruce.

Taken aback, Bruce stopped as well. “Seth! What are you doing here?”

“My mother died last night. I’m flying home; I can’t take care of Bohr now. I brought him to you.”

“Oh, Seth. I’m so sorry.” Bruce didn’t know what to do. “Can I give you a hug?”

Seth looked on the verge of tears. “Of course, I’m sure a hug will fix everything.”

“I’m so sorry,” Bruce repeated. He didn’t know what else to say. He crossed the distance between them, and wrapped his arms around the tall blond. Seth reeked of bourbon. The scent sent a shiver through Bruce’s body. Bourbon had been his father’s drink, and the odor reminded Bruce of violence and pain.

He ignored the alarm the scent triggered and pressed his face against Seth’s chest. “I never meant to hurt you. I’m—I’m weak and stupid. You deserve so much more.”

A sharp blow to his side brought Hulk raging to the fore. Bruce, powered by self-loathing and grief, was able to push him down. _Stop. He needs this._

Seth grabbed him by the throat and hit him again. Hulk pressed angrily against Bruce’s skin. _Fuck Seth’s needs! LET HULK SMASH!_

_I deserve this._ Bruce shrank Hulk to the size of a cat and shoved him in the steel box. Hulk roared. Bruce staggered from another blow. His legs felt wobbly. He only remained upright because Seth held him. _Weak and stupid. Isn’t that what you always say? Such flaws bear consequences. He needs this, and I deserve it._

Seth shook him by the throat. “You worthless little shit.” Seth’s flat-voiced words rained as spittle on Bruce’s face. “All you had to do was build a fucking bomb. Just one fucking bomb.”

Bruce felt faint. He rarely took punches as himself. “This is about the bomb?”

Seth laughed. “You gullible, fucking idiot. It’s always been about the bomb.”

Everything was hazy. “Wait…. What happened to your accent?”

“That’s what you focus on?” Seth shook him again. “I’m from Kansas, you fucking nitwit. Nearly six months of deep cover—wasted. And why? Because you have to go on a sexcapade with the _National Inquirer_ ’s joke of the week.”

Another body blow sent pain shooting through Bruce’s nerves. But this time, his gaze slipped down, and he saw the glint of metal and watched as, almost in slow motion, Seth’s hand drew the blood-covered blade from his abdomen.

_Oh, fuck. Hulk?_

_Trapped. Box._

Frantically, Bruce tried to open the box, but the latch kept slipping. His hands were slick with blood. _Hulk, smash it. Smash the box!_

_Can’t. Weak, stupid Hulk._

_No! Don’t say that!_

His eyes snapped open as Seth, still holding him by the throat, spat angrily in his face. “It would have been perfect. Your ridiculous tree-hugger mob would have been implicated in the bombing, and with a blast that size, the whole environmental movement would have been tainted by the suspicion of terrorism.”

Bruce stared into Seth’s cold blue eyes. He could almost feel that cold possessing him. “You’re an outside agitator. You work for Nexxon Global.”

“Very good, genius. You’re not as stupid as you look.”

“So this is retribution.” Bruce felt strangely calm. “Thanks for the Scooby-Do moment, but there are more efficient means of killing someone.”

Seth smiled. “If I wanted you dead, I could have killed you in an instant. This isn’t about efficiency. And it isn’t all about revenge.” He kissed Bruce’s lips gently. “You were just a paycheck.” He nuzzled Bruce’s nose. “And you cheated me out of the larger sum. You cost me money and wasted my time.” He kissed Bruce’s mouth again. When he pulled back, his lips were stained with blood. “I kept you alive so you can watch me destroy that pipedream element you and that wastoid bumbled onto.”

“And your little dog too.” Bruce laughed weakly. Obviously, Seth had no idea what he was talking about—he didn’t have the resources to destroy their element. Bruce felt thankful for that as Seth dropped him on the gravel. Seth pulled something that looked like a car alarm control from his pocket and pointed it at his dusty VW van. The van’s roof split apart, and a rocket launcher rose from the opening.

“Tony!” Bruce hadn’t wanted to involve Tony in his domestic squabble, but this was important. “TONY!”

Seth smiled down at him. “Tony’s out of the picture. I made it snow. Once a junkie, always a junkie.”

“TONY!”

Seth laughed. “See the red and gold container up there? Does that look familiar?”

“TONY!!!” Frantic, Bruce fumbled with the steel box in his head. _Hulk, please. Help!_

Dents appeared on the box as Hulk tried to punch his way out. Bruce couldn’t lift the latch. He wasn’t even sure he was still conscious. He focused all of his energy inward, desperately seeking his strength.

A slap across the face brought his eyes open. Seth leered at him. “No. You’re going to watch this. I want to see the look on your face when I blast your clean energy future into dust.”

“Seth, wait. Please. You can’t want this. Nobody wants to live on a polluted, dying planet when they could have a clean, healthy one. Even the people who imagine they’re unaffected by our destruction of the environment _are_ affected. Everyone needs clean air; everyone needs clean water. The future you want to destroy isn’t just mine. It’s everyone’s. It’s yours.”

“Aww, Bruce.” Seth sneered. “That’s so heartfelt. I might have to fuck your wounds after this.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's actually ANOTHER chapter after this.

Tony stared at the mirror from Seth’s kit. He fondled the bag, but didn’t pour it. It wasn’t worth it. He had come too far this time. He couldn’t trade his success for a high that lasted only about as long as it took to cook a frozen pizza. After all, as Bruce once told him, he was Tony fucking Stark. Handsome genius, heir to billions. He didn’t need chemicals; he was quite awesome all on his own.

And Bruce…. Bruce occupied a special place in Tony’s Rat Park. If Tony relapsed, he didn’t think Bruce would be judgmental, but he was certain his friend would be hurt and saddened. Bruce had already had enough hurt and sadness in his life; Tony didn’t want to add to that.

Fuck! Bruce! Tony had to make sure that ass-monkey wasn’t fucking Peter the Tool somewhere on the grounds. He needed to show Bruce the coke bomb his ex had dropped on him. Even if the old fart hadn’t meant to sabotage Tony’s sobriety, Bruce needed to know what the fucker was doing.

Tony put the bag in his front pants pocket and marched outside. He found the strangest sight in the driveway. Fucking Stew held Bruce partly off the ground by the collar of his black tee shirt (the butt pirate’s entire fucking wardrobe consisted mainly of black band shirts) and a fistful of his hair, and they were both looking at a dirty VW van with a rocket launcher on its roof. (Actually, that part was kind of cool. If you’re going to have an ugly-ass old car, might as well have a rocket launcher on the roof.)

But it looked like Seth was hurting Bruce, and that was definitely not cool. “Hey! Baggy Sack!” Tony yelled. “What the fuck?!”

Seth reached behind his back. Tony realized what he was doing and ran, taking cover behind Bruce’s car, which was parked with its nose facing down the drive. The first shot whined as it ricocheted off the ground near the car’s back bumper. As a bullet shattered the passenger windows, Tony strafed to the Datsun’s front, where the engine block would provide better cover than the body.

***

Bruce scrabbled for the knife lying in the drive as Seth dragged him through the gravel. His head still rang with the first shot. The gunshot was unbelievably loud. It was nothing like in television or the movies. The noise made him cringe all over. One of the hot shell casings burned his skin as it fell on his face. Through some nightmarish haze of pain and smoke, he watched, helpless, as Seth peppered Delilah with bullets, trying to murder Tony.

Unable to reach the knife, Bruce tried again to free Hulk from the steel box. A yellow cat appeared out of nowhere—there had never been a yellow cat in his head before. It went straight to the box and clawed the latch open. Hulk burst free with an angry snarl.

***

A growling noise mixed with the sound of Seth cursing made Tony peer around the edge of the Datsun’s busted headlight. Bruce and Seth were fighting for control of the gun. Bruce wasn’t doing so hot. Tony could tell he was trying, but even with that angry rush he seemed to get during a fight, the scientist just didn’t have the strength to back it up. Poor bastard.

The gun fired several rounds in the air. Tony recognized it was a Sig Sauer P220. He knew it couldn’t have more than eight rounds. Numbnuts was out of ammo.

Seth punched Bruce in the kidney then pistol-whipped him. Bruce collapsed. Tony ran at Seth and had him on the ground the next second. Seth lost the gun as they rolled over the gravel. Tony found himself on his back with Seth on top of him punching his chest. Blood was everywhere, gushing from a scalp wound Seth had taken fighting Bruce. Tony aimed for Seth’s face. He enjoyed the crunch of the man’s nose against his knuckles. More blood spilled onto Tony’s face.

Everything was wet with blood—the only noises, their heaving breaths and the relentless scrape of gravel. Despite being on the ground, Tony thought he was winning. And then Seth’s fist was in his throat.

Instinctively, Tony tried to swallow, but couldn’t. In a strange feeling of stillness, he watched the heel of Seth’s hand approach his nose, aiming to shove his nasal bones into his brain.

Just before the hand struck, something snarling plowed into Seth’s side and knocked him several feet over. Tony rolled away to put a little more distance between himself and the new brawl. He struggled to breathe, wheezing. His vision grayed. His throat felt as if a cantaloupe were stuck in it. The mental image was funny, but the feeling was beyond painful.

Dimly, he watched Seth and Bruce battle. The weird growls Bruce usually made while fighting had become pained grunts and breathy whimpers. He didn’t seem to be able to handle punches as well as he usually did when he was fighting. Tony lay on his side, gravel against his face, and fought only for air as he watched Seth beat the shit out of his friend.

They were going to die. They were going to die in his driveway…and he had no idea why.

Pretend you’re dead, Tony wanted to tell Bruce. Pretend you’re dead, and maybe he’ll leave us alone. But Bruce couldn’t hear Tony’s thoughts, and Bruce was fucking stupid when he started fighting. Tony’s feelings of helplessness threatened to overwhelm him. Bruce fell to his hands and knees, spewing vomit.

Seth flung Bruce aside and grabbed something from the ground. Tony was afraid it was the gun. Bruce stretched toward Seth, pawing the air near his ankle. Seth laughed maniacally. Tony lifted himself up.

The rocket flared to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, KlaatuDuLak, for beta-reading and acting as weapons consultant.


	18. Chapter 18

The rocket sprayed the VW van with flames. The tires melted, filling the air with the reek of burnt rubber. The rocket blasted into the air.  
The three of them watched it in silence. It exploded high in the air in a gout of smoke. While Bruce and Seth watched the smoke trails, Tony belly-crawled across the gravel. He grabbed the gun and searched the ground for a replacement magazine. Fuck you, Stew. He ejected the spent magazine and loaded a new one. The noise of the slide releasing drew Seth’s attention. 

Bruce snarled and grabbed at Seth’s ankle, but Seth was already in motion. Tony got off a shot, but blood was dripping in one of his eyes and shooting after a running man with a semiautomatic was very different from shooting skeet with a shotgun.

Seth raced to the only vehicle in the drive besides the flaming van—Bruce’s Datsun, which was pointed nose first toward the driveway. He started it before the boys had managed to pick themselves off the ground. Evidently, Bruce had left his keys in it again. With a shit-eating grin, Stew threw the car into gear.

As Tony and Bruce watched, the enhanced clunker shot across the driveway as if from a cannon and smashed straight into the stone retaining wall at the nearest bend. Tony looked at Bruce. “You forgot to drain the capacitors, didn’t you?”

Bruce grunted. His face was a mask of blood. “Smash,” he whispered.

“Yeah, looks like.” They shuffled to the wreck like zombies. The Datsun’s front end was crumpled against the wall. A bloody hole in its windshield showed Seth’s exit. Seth lay near the car; blood dripped down the wall in front of him.

***

The sight of Seth’s mangled body brought Bruce back. He dropped to his knees beside his former lover and felt his carotid artery for a pulse. It was faint, but there. He began assessing Seth’s injuries. Probable collapsed lung, probable internal bleeding, multiple fractures—several compound—

“Fuck. That Stew has some bones.”

Bruce ignored him. “Could you apply pressure to this artery while I examine his skull?”

“What are you doing?” Tony stood over him.

“Trying to keep him alive.”

“Bruce. Fuck. That asshole just tried to kill us. I know break-ups are hard—”

“He worked for Nexxon Global Oil Corporation and was trying to sabotage the environmental movement. I want him alive so the world can see what lengths Nexxon Global will go to trying to protect their profits.”

Tony sighed. “Okay.”

“Fuck!” Bruce started chest compressions.

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s going into cardiac arrest.” His efforts caused his own wounds to leak and ache. He felt weaker and weaker. “He needs a strong stimulant. Fuck!”

Tony waved a tiny bag of white powder in front of Bruce’s face. Bruce stared at it. “Is that—”

“Coke. Stew gave it to me.”

At the moment, Bruce couldn’t deal with the implications of that statement. He tried to shut off most of his brain. He needed to save Seth; he would sort out the rest later.

A sublingual route was his best chance of saving Seth. He poured the contents of the baggie under Seth’s tongue. Seth’s eyes opened. He gasped. Out of habit, Bruce stroked his face. “It’s okay, Seth.” He realized suddenly that he didn’t even know Seth’s real name. “I guess you're lucky Tony didn’t snort that coke you gave him; we used it to save your life.”

“No. No, no, no.” Seth gasped. He twitched and jumped beneath Bruce’s hands. Bruce watched him in horror. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head as he continued to convulse. Then he went limp.

Bruce was barely aware of Tony’s hand on his shoulder. “That—that must have been poison….”

“You didn’t know that. You didn’t kill him, Bruce.”

Bruce turned to Tony. “That was meant for you!” He punched Seth’s slack face. Hulk had disappeared to lick his wounds; Bruce was alone in his fury. “You fucking asshole!” He beat the dead man’s chest. “You fucking motherfucker!!!” Blood roared in his ears. He vomited on the corpse. Beside him, Delilah burst into flames. “Goddamnit. I think—”

Bruce didn’t realize he was down until he saw Tony’s dirty socks beside him. It’s going to explode. Bruce knew he hadn’t said it. He tried again.

“It’s going to explode,” said Tony. “We need to move! Now!”

But Bruce had nothing left. He tried to move, but could barely drag himself a few centimeters. He felt Tony lift him. His wounds screamed as Tony ran. And then Tony dumped him on the ground and lay over him.

The noise of the explosion rolled through the canyon. The flames, now a good distance away, roared louder. The odor of burnt rubber mixed with gasoline. Smoke filled the air. But up close, there was only the coppery scent of blood mixed with the acrid odor of sweat. Bruce felt Tony’s cheek press against his. “I think we’re okay,” Tony whispered.

Bruce sighed, enjoying Tony’s closeness. He felt too content to open his eyes. He hurt everywhere, but this…. He felt a bareness as Tony’s body lifted away from his. He pined for it, and started to voice his frustration, when something soft and fleshy dropped on his face.

“Open up, and I’ll put it in your mouth.”

Bruce laughed, then winced because it hurt. He opened his eyes. “Not funny,” he managed.

Tony flopped his cock around. “I don’t know, man. Looked like you were winking out. Just trying to keep my promise.”

Bruce patted the ground beside him. “Lie next to me. I’m cold.”

Laughing, Tony pulled up his pants and snuggled next to Bruce. Bruce gritted his teeth as Tony rubbed his chest and stomach. Tony snorted in disgust, shaking his hand in the air. “You’re all wet.” He sat up suddenly. “Goddamnit, Bruce! Your shirt’s all bloody. Is this yours?” He peeled up Bruce’s shirt. Bruce, from his perspective, saw a black field with several tiny slits that let slivers of light shine through. Tony, on his end, evidently saw something else. “Oh, fuck. He stabbed you? What the fuck, dude? What the fuck?”

Bruce wiggled a finger through one of the slits, widening it into a hole. “Yeah, and I loved this shirt. Skinny Puppy’s so cool.”

“I couldn’t see the blood. I didn’t know.” Tony sounded strangely panicked. “Hang in there, okay? I’ll call a chopper. It’s going to be alright.” He ran his fingers through Bruce’s hair.

Bruce enjoyed the sensation and sighed happily. “I’m okay.”

“You’re fucking NOT okay, you fucktard.” He shook Bruce until he opened his eyes. “Wake up! We have to fix your computer. We have lots of things to do.” And then he was close to Bruce’s face, his breath warm on Bruce’s skin. “I love you.” His voice was strained, but soft.

Bruce felt so sleepy. He shut his eyes—just for a minute. He could barely form the words. “I love you. Always have….”

***

Tony hated leaving Bruce, but he had to call for help. It was the only way. After making the proper arrangements, he ran back to Bruce and squatted beside him. “I’m back.” It hurt to talk. His voice sounded raspy and his throat ached. He pulled Bruce’s head into his lap. Bruce, eyes shut, made a sleepy noise and nuzzled against him. Tony tapped Bruce’s cheek lightly. “C’mon. You need to stay awake.”

“Don’t be afraid. He didn’t hurt me too much.”

“You must be frying. You look like something out of a George Romero movie.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said in a small voice.

Tony smiled to himself. Bruce Banner. Gets his ass kicked. Apologizes. He stroked the spiky mat of grit and blood that was Bruce’s hair. “It’s okay.”

“Someday we’ll be safe.”

“Yeah, dude. Whatever.”

“I’ll get us a house. We can plant those lavender and blue flowers you like—hydrangeas.”

Tony tapped Bruce’s cheek. “Bruce—stop talking to your mom. You’re creeping me out.”

“You won’t have to do anything but play the piano.”

Tony felt himself sag. He caressed Bruce’s face. “I’ll cut the crusts off your bread.”

“Thanks. Crusts are yucky.”

“Yeah, well you better snap out of it, bro, unless you want the world to know your last words were, ‘crusts are yucky.’” He sighed, brushing a fingertip over Bruce’s eyebrow. “I would kiss you,” he said softly. “But my mouth hurts, and I saw you puke earlier, and you’ve got a bad case of turdbreath.”

Bruce snickered, but didn’t open his eyes. “Turdbreath.”

Tony choked and swallowed with effort. “I love you, Bruce. I need you around, okay?”

“Turdbreath!” Bruce giggled softly.

Tony wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and watched the sky for any sign of the helicopter.

***

Something loud kind of pissed Bruce off. “What is that? Do you hear that?”

Hulk crouched across from him. The giant loomed over a table at an outdoor café. He dumped a platter of salad into his maw. “Dandelions good.” Hulk’s puppies, Toot and Pompom, gamboled between the big green feet.

Bruce sipped his iced mint tea. “I’m forgetting something…. What happened to the airport? And…weren’t we just talking to….” The yellow cat that had freed Hulk appeared in the chair beside him. Bruce arched an eyebrow at it. “I don’t remember any yellow cats being in here.”

“I came from the steel box,” said the cat in a very casual way, licking its paw. It sounded kind of like comedian Bill Maher.

“So, you survived.”

“Duh.”

“Why isn’t anyone in my head ever nice to me?”

Hulk laughed. “Stupid Bruce. Also weak.”

But Bruce was interested in the cat. “Shouldn’t you have died? You were a metaphor for the possibility of my romantic relationship with Tony.”

The cat glanced at Hulk. “I see what you mean.” He went back to licking his paw. “It’s true that I’m not a romantic relationship. I’m yellow, symbolizing friendship.” He washed behind his ear. “Your friendship survived that horrid Schrödinger’s cat metaphor. I not only survived, I’m stronger than you can imagine. At the moment, besides being your mind’s manifestation of that relationship, I’m also anchoring you to the world, to your life.”

The cat was in his lap suddenly, purring against his chest. The purring was so loud. It was too loud. Bruce put his hands over his ears. “It’s okay, Bruce,” said the cat. “Bruce?”

“Bruce?” Tony’s voice, hoarse and close to his ear.

With effort, he opened his eyes and found Tony crouched beside him. He could see the blades of a helicopter and feel the air buffeted by them. On his other side was a slight man with bleached hair replacing a spent bag of blood with a new one.

***

_Later_

“Tony?”

Tony shook himself awake. He sat in one of the hospital room’s uncomfortable chairs with his head and arms resting on Bruce’s bed. Bruce’s hand, trailing plastic tubing, feebly petted his head. The plastic ID bracelet scratched against Tony’s nose. Tony picked up Bruce’s hand, kissed its fingers, then set it aside. “It’s about time. You were out like a pussy, dude.” His voice was hoarse, and despite the anti-inflammatory and pain medicine he had been prescribed, his throat still hurt. Luckily, his hyoid bone hadn’t been broken, and his larynx, while bruised, hadn’t been terribly damaged.

“Thanks.” Bruce smiled. “I feel better.”

“You should. You’re full of pain meds.” He rubbed Bruce’s arm. “You were in surgery for hours, but everything went well. You’re taking a couple of antibiotics that carry some heavy potential risks, but the doctor insisted you needed them because of the intestinal perforations—”

“Yeah, sepsis is a shitty way to go. I understand the cost benefit analysis that’s inherent with medicine.” His calm demeanor broke as he felt the patch over his eye. “Did I lose an eye???”

Tony laughed. “No. You scratched a cornea or…okay, I don’t know, really. I was just paying attention to the big things—but I know your eye’s going to be okay. You just have to wear that for a while.” He grinned. “Now you really look like a butt pirate.”

“We need to take pictures.”

“Let’s wait for the swelling to go down.”

Bruce’s eye, which had been glassy from the drugs, softened more. “You look good. You look like you’ve been through hell, but you look good.”

“Hell’s a good look for me?”

Bruce grinned. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Well, you look like some dogshit someone hammered on a wall.”

Bruce laughed, but winced with each spasm. “Don’t. It hurts.”

Tony sat on the bed. “I ran a background check on Seth. The results came back this afternoon.” He snorted. “Just in time, huh?”

Bruce had grown serious. “What did you find out?”

“His name wasn’t Seth Adderly. It was Theodore Braunhoffe, and he was an American. Before he was on Nexxon Global’s payroll, he was a CIA agent—”

“Fuck! Those tapes! He must have been trying some kind of hypnotic mind control in conjunction with all of his I-want-to-be-your-lover mindfuck.”

Tony stroked his whiskers. “Yeah, you usually love new agey crap like that, but you hated those tapes.” He looked at Bruce sternly. “What was all of this about, anyway?”

Bruce hesitated. In a small voice he said, “He wanted me to bomb a Nexxon Global refinery because Nexxon believed they could spin it to discredit the whole environmental movement. I thought he was an environmentalist. I thought he wanted to take Nexxon Global down. Even without the tapes, I considered it.”

“That’s fucked up.”

Bruce turned his face away. “I know. But I didn’t do it.” He held his head. “I feel so stupid. He tried to kill you.” He looked up at Tony suddenly. “I don’t know what I would have done—”

Tony squeezed Bruce’s arm. “He didn’t. I’m still here. Stop being a little bitch.”

Bruce took a deep breath, which must have really hurt because he cringed and whispered a curse. Tony chuckled. But Bruce looked serious. “He destroyed our bronium…. Do you think there’s still enough at the labs to replicate it?”

Tony stared at Bruce. He had hoped Bruce wouldn’t ask about the bronium so soon. He had realized later that the purpose of the rocket was to fuck up their portion of the element. “It’s gone,” he said quietly. “Livermore called this morning saying their sample disappeared. After the doctors said you were stable today, I called CERN. It’s the same there. They don’t know what happened to it; it vanished.”

“Nexxon must have people everywhere.” Bruce stared out the window; the blinds were drawn. “We were so close….” Tears gathered in his eye as he turned to Tony. “How can people do that? How can they be so short-sighted? I don’t understand. How can they sell out their children? Future generations? I don’t understand it. I don’t.”

Tony lay down beside him and held him carefully. “I’m glad you don’t.” He kissed Bruce’s temple. “I love you for it.” He wanted to profess the depth of his love, but the words stayed locked in his swollen throat.

Bruce relaxed his head against Tony’s chin. “I love you too.” He caressed Tony’s face. “I’m sorry if I made things tense between us by wanting us to be more than friends. Those are silly phrases, aren’t they? More than friends. Just friends. As if friendship were somehow unimportant. Your friendship is the most important thing in my life. It saved my life.” He smiled at Tony sadly. “I love you. And I love that we’re friends.”

***

_Three weeks later_

Tony smirked as Peaches (her name was Theresa or Frieda or something, but Peaches was close enough) ogled the tech in his limo. As the driver pulled them away from the curb, Tony checked the time on his Rolex. “I have to make a call,” he told Peaches. “Play with anything you want.” He pressed the button to bring up the phone.

Peaches swooned. “Oh wow! It’s so little!”

“That’s not something I hear very often.”

She giggled and swatted his shoulder. “You’re so bad!”

“I hear that one a lot.” He punched in the number. “Yeah, this handset’s only about eight inches.” He grinned at Peaches. “And eight inches _is_ small.”

He pressed the phone to his ear as the woman giggled. On the other end, Bruce’s answering machine picked up. His disappointment must have shown on his face, because Peaches stroked his tux and made a little coo of sympathy.

Bruce picked up the line; he sounded breathless. “Tony? I was just about to call you after I finished fainting.”

Tony grinned. “You got it, huh?”

“They just delivered it. I don’t even—I love it—but you shouldn’t have—”

“You needed a new car. And that one gets incredible gas mileage; I knew you’d bitch if it didn’t.”

“I love it, but—fuck! It’s _new_!”

“Relax, Buttercup. It’s just a Honda CR-X HF, not a Rolls. It’s dependable and fuel-efficient—and it’ll never get you laid.”

“Really??? I want to fuck it and marry it. It looks like a green M&M. Or a tree frog. I love it! I fucking love it.”

“What do you think about the license plates?” Tony snickered during the ensuing silence.

“Um…they’re funny…sorta.”

Tony couldn’t help it and laughed outright.

“You realize ‘Benji 69’ kinda sounds like I fuck dogs, right?”

“Yeah. ‘Dogfucker’ was too many letters.”

Bruce laughed. “Fuck. I love you.”

“You should, man. I just bought you a fucking car.” He enjoyed Bruce’s laughter.

“Hey,” Bruce said, quieting down a little. “Thank you for donating to the wildlife sanctuary. They were so happy. You not only covered the cost of maintaining the new coyote enclosure, but they were able to fund several other projects as well.”

Tony played with one of his cufflinks. “Yeah.” He continued in a somber voice. “Thanks for your idea about remembering Liz by establishing grants for struggling artists. We had the first awards ceremony tonight. It went really well.” He gave a half laugh. “My mom came.”

The other side of the line was so quiet, for a second Tony thought he had lost the connection. Then Bruce said, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m more than okay. I’m kinda fucking great. Uh…it was weird. That part—Mom. But everything went well, and she seemed almost proud of me.” He dusted a bit of lint from his knee. “Not that it mattered. I mean, I felt good about it whether she saw any merit in it or not.” He cleared his throat. “Go do some dorky shit in your new car, Benji. I have important things to do.” He raised an eyebrow at Peaches who had thoughtfully made him a martini and was licking the stir.

“Okay. I’m going to roll around in it for a while and slaver.”

“I should have just given you a rubber ball.” He grinned as Bruce giggled. He sighed as they hung up and turned his attention to Peaches. He sipped the martini. “Mmm. Perfect. I like my martinis like I like my women—wet and dirty.”

As he raised his arm for a playful attack, Peaches touched the bracelet, revealed by his movement, on his wrist. “What’s that?”

He understood her confusion. It was braided hemp—totally incongruent with his tuxedo and his—anything, really. It was a fucking friendship bracelet because, apparently, someone thought they were twelve-year-old girls. “Some dorky shit.”

Peaches squinted at the engraving. “Rat Park? What does that mean?”

“It means I’m Tony fucking Stark, and every day is a new challenge.” He felt the truth of those words ring all through him, like the gong of an iron bell. He stretched with the luxury of a lion and smirked as Peaches—or whatever the fuck her name was—pounced on him. It was good to be alive. And it was even better to be Tony Stark.

The End


End file.
